


Crack (a Translation)

by farfalle



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Book 7: Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, Canon Divergence, M/M, Translation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-13
Updated: 2019-04-12
Packaged: 2019-09-17 11:07:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 34,694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16973463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/farfalle/pseuds/farfalle
Summary: This is an authorised translation of the miraculous work of @light_and_warmThe Chinese version is complete. Check 裂 ( https://archiveofourown.org/works/16294883/chapters/38110139) if you want to read the original work.*Based on "Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows".01 | One day, the other soul in Harry's body awakes.02 | For sixteen years, he thought he was accustomed to the temperature here. It's not until now that he finds how cold he feels.03 | A story about amōrem & animam.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [裂(Crack)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16294883) by [light_and_warm](https://archiveofourown.org/users/light_and_warm/pseuds/light_and_warm). 



 

Someone is _staring_ at him.

This is not some ordinary spying. Harry doesn't think he is being watched by a pair of eyes behind a tree or a cabin. It is something cold, as if it is attached to the back of his head, like a sticky, smelly doughnut, cold as ice.

They seized the Locket of Slytherin in the Ministry the other day, and just within a few seconds, they exposed their safe house, Grimmauld, to the enemies when apparating. Now, they are on the run.

Harry starts to suspect if a Death Eater has followed them here. Ron is injured. They have no food. They are starving. If there is a Death Eater around at this moment, they are doomed. But no matter where he searches, Harry doesn't find anyone suspicious. He can't help asking Hermione whether her spells and jinxes of protection are reliable. She seems offended.

"I don't think anyone would find us, Harry,'' says Hermione. ''If anyone hostile _does_ approach, my spells will warn us.''

''Sure.'' Harry quits it. Either Hermione is wrong, or he has an illusion. Maybe he's just too intense. Ron begins moaning in pain. Harry gets up and puts on the Invisibility Cloak. ''I'll try to get some food. There is a muggle street nearby." Hermione nods at him and lets him out of the wards. "Careful, Harry," she says softly.

Taking a deep breath, Harry slowly walks across the woods. He has confidence in his cloak. Even if there is someone spying on him, he won't be seen. Harry carefully lifts the hem of the cloak when he passes a muddy path. There are still small sounds of the hem brushing the grass along the path.

Perhaps he is heard, thinks Harry. If that spy knows where he is, he or she might follow up, so that Harry will know who it has been. Harry turns around, trying to spot a leg, a figure that fails to hide itself, or some rustling sounds from walking, only to find no one. That _pair of eyes_...still attached to the back of his head.

Bloody hell. He thinks to himself. What the hell is this?

Right in front of him is the busy muggle street. The afternoon sunshine spreads across the trees and the shops along both sides, the crowd loitering. Harry breathes deeply, half closes his eyes and takes a precious moment to relax. It has been ages since he talked to anyone other than Ron and Hermione, except in that riot at the Ministry, which couldn't really count as a pleasant experience.

He pulls the cloak tighter around him, moving cautiously. To his east, there is a bakery full of guests. A chilly breeze causes a shiver down his spine. Rubbing his nose, Harry looks down. His shadow somehow becomes darker. The winds grow stronger, and the coldness gets through the cloak, penetrating his skin like countless tiny thorns. Looking up, Harry finds the street suddenly falling into the dark, cold winter. Every beam of sunlight is gone. The muggles freeze, their faces as blank as ghosts.

Cold breathes have wrapped him up from head to feet. It seems that his blood is also frozen. Dark, foggy shadows are floating to his direction. All happiness is gone... A scream starts in his brain. The sickness of being _stared_ has devoured him like a black hole. It is his father's cry, then his mother's... _Let him go! No_...He stumbles backwards dizzily, struggling to get rid of the control of that negative power. The large shadows of Dementors are so close, close enough to see their waving cloaks, to hear their ugly mouths breathing and the rustling sounds of their movement...

It occurs to Harry that the Invisibility Cloak won't fool the Dementors. He desperately pulls the wand out of his pocket, mind empty. ''Expecto patronum!"

From the tip of his wand bursts a cloud of mist, which disappears in no time. The locket against his chest shakes a dead sound. Harry wracks his brain for happy memories. He can feel a Dementor touching his hand...Slimy and cold, he hates it.

" _Expecto patronum!_ "

Still a helpless cloud of mist. The Dememtors didn't draw back. They come closer as one of them takes off its hood. _No...No! Never...Expecto patronum...expecto..._ He wants to scream, but his throat is too dry, so he can only make a hoarse cry.

He doesn't need this, and they can't...No...Harry draws back. He bumps into a muggle and falls to the ground. The Dementor pounces on him, opening its mouth, a rotten black hole with disgusting smell

Harry feels a power that can drain his soul. His vision blurry, all kinds of cold emotions are surrounding him. There is no light. He has realised that his soul is being fed on, and this is exactly an out-of-body moment. He is facing a mincer, a mincer that rips every piece of a rich soul out of its owner, every piece of happiness, until there are only negative feelings left.

Harry vaguely knows that once he falls into that black hole, he will disappear forever, so he starts to struggle. But he can hardly fight against the storm surrounding him. The wind howls. Gradually it starts to sound as sharp as the friction of numerous tin cans. Their shriek is cutting his soul into slices.

He is dying. Harry has never known better. His soul will be drained. He will be the food of Dementors, and he will disappear forever. There is no worse way to die, but he can't do anything about it. Hermione and Rom will find him on the street, maybe not a dead body yet, but not alive, either. There will be so many tears for him.

How should they deal with his body?

It doesn't matter anymore. He will be dead then.

He is been drawing closer to the black hole. Large hands reach out for his limbs. Harry lets them. Perhaps they are trying to dig some happiness from him, like a burglar trying to dig out some treasure. But there is no happiness left in him, not anymore.

 

Something suddenly hit him. Its force drives him back to the winds. He struggles to look back, where floats a dark grey shadow, towed by the black hole the way Harry is. Harry can tell the shadow is trying to fly backwards, but barely moving under such power.

"Give me a push," the shadow voices itself. It sounds somewhat familiar. Harry starts to pull back, too.

"Who _are_ you?" growls Harry, his voice echoing about.

"Give me a push!" The shadow leans to him. Harry stretches his hand, but fails to touch it. It's not close enough.

"Who are you?" he repeats.

No response. Harry lets out a breath; then he is pulled back at the very moment.

"No." He says, "Why should I?"

"What?" Anger swells in that voice, "Do as I say, Potter!"

"You want to take over my body. I know perfectly well," snaps Harry. "Why should I help you?"

The shadow is in his reach now. Harry grabs the leg of it, trying to get rid of the gravity of the black hole. It kicks violently, attempting to throw Harry off. But Harry grips tight, so they start to swirl in the storm.

"Get off, Potter!" hisses the shadow. Harry remains silent, for he doesn't want to waste more strength. It's not easy to ''get off'' in a storm. What he grips seems way lighter than him, way more illusory as well. He feels like holding a half-full bag of rice in hand.

"If you want to live, don't move," says Harry. "The friction of two is stronger than one. I daresay once I let you go, you will be ripped into parts."

"Not you to judge." The shadow turns around. Harry finally sees who it is, tightening his grip unconsciously.

The eyes that stick to the back of his head, _staring_ at him, black and icy.

Harry thinks he's going to throw up.

"Bloody hell! Why _you_?" he roars. "I'm letting go, Voldemort!"

"I dare you, Potter!" Now it's Voldemort who is gripping, while Harry twists and turns. They are rolling in the air.

He has seen this face before — in Dumbledore's memory, when Voldemort came to Hogwarts to apply for a position and got rejected. His features reveal that he used to be handsome, but it is as though they were burnt. The face looks oddly distorted.

Harry's arm is in the tight grip of Voldemort's long fingers. He can hardly believe so illusory a ghost has such power.

This won't work. Harry thinks. As much as he wants to fight Voldemort, he can't risk causing both of them to disappear. Maybe he should take a chance, throwing Voldemort into that dark abyss so that the counterforce can help him escape. That's a perfect plan, though difficult to implement, considering how tight Voldemort grips.

"Listen. We need a plan." Harry's voice hoarse, it's too difficult to talk here. "You don't want to be devoured by the Dementors, do you? We have the same aim now."

The man lets out a ''humph''.

"First, you have to let go of me."

"In your dreams, Potter. I know what your trick is, " replies Voldemort immediately. Harry groans in pain due to the firm grip.

"Well then. We'll fly back together. Don't waste your time here!" he yelled in anger.

The man sneers, but there is no objection from him. The gravity grows stronger. Perhaps the Dementor has lost its patience, which is lethal to them. Harry struggles backwards for his life. He no longer feels cold. The will to live pulls him together again. He is ashamed of himself for thinking of giving up moments ago.

Voldemort grabs Harry by the hand, flying back. Harry finds him surprisingly lithe, though the weight of Harry makes him a little bulkier, but it also prevents him from being blown down by the wind.

"Why can you..." he can't help asking. They have gradually left the storm zone and float evenly in the air.

"It's safe now," says Voldemort. Harry stares at his hand, wishing he could predict his next move. He secretly tenses.

"So..." The hand on his shoulder suddenly gives him a push. Harry falls forward. He _knew_ it. Harry instantly flies back from the other side. Voldemort has already headed to the entrance. He flies much faster than Harry. Gritting his teeth, Harry bounces towards it.

His whole brain feels the concussion. Harry is on all fours, gasping heavily. He looks up, the muggle street back in vision. The Dementors are still wandering about. His cloak is sliding down. Harry quickly pulls it up, and turns back to where he came.

 

Damn! What is this all about? Harry rubs his face violently. He has no idea why Voldemort would appear in his brain. He did sense his thoughts and look through his eyes before, but this time is _different_.

Is he possessed by Voldemort again? Harry feels like throwing up. Did Voldemort possess him to kill him? But given what happened just now, he seems in a dangerous condition himself, so Harry doesn't think he will take the risk.

It has been _his_ stare.

Harry feels numb. It reminds him of the fifth year. Back then, every time he looked at Dumbledore, an impulse to attack would emerge. It was like what he feels now, but Dumbledore told him that Voldemort would never attempt to possess him after that time.

"Your soul is so complete and pure that it becomes lethal to him, Harry," said Dumbledore then. "He already knows what it costs to possess you."

But Dumbledore had kept a lot of things from him, hadn't he? He never talked about his family, nor himself. Still, he cared about him, and he told him things he thought useful, hoping to help him live.

Harry slowly walks to their tent. Hermione and Ron are waiting inside. He has realised the moment he enters that he didn't buy the bread. He completely forgot about it.

"Any food?" asks Ron.

"There were Dementors on the street. I couldn't produce a Patronus," says Harry.

"How come? You can make a brilliant Patronus!" Hermione is shocked. Harry reads disappointment in their eyes. He feels terrible.

How was that his fault? He was nearly kissed -- they nearly lost him. Do they think he was willing to see how it went?

"No idea," replies Harry finally.

"So we still haven't got any food, right?" Ron exclaims, "I am starving! All I’ve had since I bled half to death is a couple of toadstools!"

"Then you go and fight your way through the dementors, then.“ Harry is stung by his words.

“I would, but my arm’s in a sling, in case you hadn’t noticed!”

“That’s convenient.”

“And what’s that supposed to — ?”

“Of course!” cries Hermione, startling both of them into silence and looking at her. “Harry, the locket! Are you still wearing it?” Harry looks down, the locket pressing at his skin. Hermione takes it off from him, which immediately relieves him greatly.

"Better?"

"Much better!"

"You don't think you've been possessed, do you?" Ron frowns.

That fight in his head...Harry wishes it had been a mere illusion.

"I don't. I still remember everything we've done."

"Anyway, we must go somewhere else. It would be unwise to stay where Dementors are around. " Hermione releases the protective spells. Holding hands, they apparate.

At last they managed to obtain egg and bread on a farm. They sit in the tent, devouring dinner when the night falls. Hermione seems troubled. "It's not stealing, is it? Not if I left some money under the chicken coop?"

"Hermione, you worry too much!"

A full stomach brings delight, while an empty one brings angst and arguments. Harry had learnt this when he was sleeping and starving in the cupboard. This has been the first night of laughter after a long time. He has stayed hopeful until he takes the night watch. The lights in the remote windows are gradually out. The night breeze lingers at his collar, sending a slight chill. Harry gasps and settles himself down in the grass.

He doesn't sense the stare anymore. It must have been the locket. Voldemort is able to manipulate people via his Horcruxes, just the way he did with that diary. They need to be more cautious.

Harry is about to return to the tent and warn his friends about this, especially when Hermione has the locket with her now. A sudden voice announces itself in his mind. He feels being stared again.

"You can't be more wrong, Potter."

He stops instantly, stiff.

"...Voldemort?"he thinks in his head, not making a sound. "Why are you still there?"

"You should ask yourself, Potter. What have you done to me?" There is icy rage in his voice, as well as, surprisingly, some confusion.

"Myself? What are you talking about?"

"I shouldn't have been here," says the man coldly. "Once I find out what you've done, Potter, you will know the consequences."

"I said I had no idea. Damn it! Do you think you are _welcome_ in my head?" Nausea strikes Harry. This is similar to talking with that diary, only far more dangerous, because he can't really toss his brain away. "If you do have a way to get out of my head, just do so, please."

A couple of seconds have passed in silence before Voldemort suddenly speaks, "What's the time now?"

"Sorry?" Harry didn't get it.

"The _year_ , Potter."

"...1998. You are messed up due to entering my head, aren't you?"

"It's impossible," the man says firmly. He can hardly pretend to be calm. "Impossible. You are lying, Potter. You know how I hate it when people lie to me..."

"If you are in a dream, wake up then!" Harry shouts in his mind. His scar stings viciously, which should have got a moan out of him if Harry hadn't covered his mouth. "Anyone with a clear mind knows what time it is. If you don't, congratulations! I'm more than happy!"

"I wish I was dreaming. Better than staying in a childish brain." Voldemort tries to contain himself.

"I'm an adult, Voldemort," Harry talks back, "it's nothing though, compared to your pursuit of immortality."

Another few seconds of annoying silence. Harry didn't expect this. Something's wrong. He thought Voldemort was plotting behind all this, but he seemed even more confused than Harry.

Harry attempts to connect Voldemort's mind, but he gets caught in no time. His scar starts burning.

"Don't you even try, Potter."

"Actually, in most cases they come to me." Harry pants.

"What?"

"I mean that I don't want to know what you are thinking of, but it just comes through my scar. Get it?" Harry is almost over the edge. Voldemort should know this. Did he really lose his memories?

"Explain, Potter."

"Enough. I am not obliged to explain that. You've lost your memories. But I won't let you off simply for this, even though you are in my brain."

"Oh, so you are going to cut your brain out, then?" says Voldemort sarcastically, sneering.

"...I'll find another way. There must be a way to wipe you out while let me live."

"Sadly, Potter, you are the one to be wiped out."

"Then why don't you try? Try killing me at this moment. Surely you can do that." Harry is furious, "What? You are afraid?"

Voldemort goes silent. Harry finds himself more and more used to this silence; it's soothing in some way.

"So...it's been sixteen years since then." Harry is yawning when Voldemort suddenly begins. "You've lived for sixteen years after that night."

"Sorry, I don't feel so nostalgic right now," says Harry sincerely. "We may talk about how you lost your memories though."

"What happened after that?" Voldemort refuses to take the bait.

"Sixteen years ago —"

"I went where the prophecy located. Then —"

"Do we have to talk about this?" Harry snaps. "About how you killed, how it pleased you. Do we _have_ to?"

"That's all I remember, brat," retorts Voldemort. "You were only one, and I killed you --"

"Congratulations on killing your arch-enemy — an one-year-old boy. No, you didn't, 'cause I'm still alive till now." Harry says coldly, "You should give a toast to The Boy Who Lived!"

He screams the moment he finishes that sentence. The rage of Voldemort has gone beyond his expectation. Pain bursts, burning from his scar to his eyes. Harry takes off his glasses, panting with hands on his eyes. It doesn't make him better.

"Harry, what's wrong?" asks Hermione anxiously, who just drew the curtains of the tent apart. "You spot anyone suspicious?"

"No, er...It's just the scar." He gasps, pressing at it with his palm.

"Okay then." She puts on a poker face, "You said you no longer sensed his thoughts."

It's nothing," he shakes his head. "Really — nothing."

After a couple of reminders, Hermione returns to the tent. Harry continues rubbing his forehead. It's getting better, but the scar still stings.

"I was right," he mutters. "You have never succeeded. You can't really expect me to be kind to you."

"'Never succeeded'."

"Of course not."

"You mean I've made other attempts?"

Harry stops rubbing his forehead, irritated.

"Right. Every year since I entered Hogwarts, you attempted to kill me. I can't believe you've forgotten that, Voldemort. I thought I couldn't hate you more." Harry finds it extremely hard not to swear, but the pain from his scar prevents him. "In my first year, you went to steal the Philosopher's Stone, and I stopped you. In the next year, your diary opened the Chamber of Secrets, and you were going to kill me. In year three, you had obtained a servant and you two conspired for your resurrection. You did resurrect, and attempted to kill me again — another failure. We had a fight in the Ministry in the fifth year. Last year you killed Dumbledore. You've forgotten all this?"

"...I wasn't completely senseless," Voldemort sounds thoughtful. "Sometimes I knew a little, at least after your fourth year. But...it wasn't me."

"Not you! Who else could it be?" Harry sneers.

"Not this one, boy." The iciness in his voice returns.

Harry wants to retort when there is a sudden revelation. A headache follows.

"A Horcrux," he is out of breath. "You are inside me...God, this _can't_ be happening...How did you..."

"Make it clear, Potter." Voldemort is out of patience. Harry's face is distorted.

"You should have killed me." After a few seconds, he lays his head on the knees, staring at his shoes.

"That's the plan all along, boy. But you haven't explained your words yet."

"I am totally fed up," murmurs Harry. "I'm fed up, Voldemort. I thought I only had to kill you. Now I have to commit suicide."

"And you were bluffing about finding a way."

"That was because I didn't know I was a Horcrux. I though it was some dark magic. But a Horcrux — I only know how to destroy one." Harry digs the clods on the ground, hard, mud going under his nails. "Your can only recall what happened sixteen years ago, right? Do you remember how you died when you tried to kill me?"

" _Shut up,_ Potter."

"It must be lonely to be dead for sixteen years," he keeps going anyway. "But you _deserved_ it. You even deserve another taste of it, for the sake of all your victims --"

He didn't finish it before he started screaming. Harry has been writhing on the ground, bracing himself, until Hermione and Ron rush out of the tent and drag him back. His scream goes on with the deadly pain.

 

Harry can't continue his nightwatch, and Hermione takes his place. He lies in the bed, his quilt aside, and stares at the ceiling motionlessly. The pain in his scar has never been more acute, as if it's announcing its presence. He knows why now. This rage is not conveyed to him _via_ that piece of soul inside, but _from_ it.

He. Is. A. Horcrux. Of. Lord Voldemort.

He senses the emotions of Voldemort only because he himself is a filthy part of that broken soul. A piece of soul was split from Voldemort's body and entered his at that man's failure, living with him for sixteen years. He has stayed with the murderer of his parents for _sixteen_ years, knowing nothing.

Voldemort couldn't have plotted for this. There was no reason that he should use his enemy as a Horcrux. Harry hates dark magic all the time, whereas he is a part of the darkest one.

Ron begins snoring. Harry can't fall asleep. He wants to find a rope and strangle himself. Without the protection of its vessel, that piece of soul will die. He is so filthy, filthier than being possessed. He is a _Horcrux_.

Harry closes his eyes, forcing himself to sleep.

 

TBC.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys, Farfalle here! Thank you for reading the first chapter. This is the first time I've tried to translate a work written in my mother tongue into English, so you will probably find tons of expressions not so idiomatic, with loads of misspelling and ungrammatical sentences since this is not beta'd :( Any comments and criticism are welcome. Just please understand that the original work is way better!  
> I used historical present tense because the original work always gives me a strong feeling of 'on the go'. I'm not sure if this will make some of you uncomfortable while reading. Please let me know what you think.  
> Thank you again!!!


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, many thanks for leaving kudos and comments! 
> 
> So I tried to make it on Lord V's birthday... and failed. Guess I still have a long way to go before becoming a proficient translator *palm over face* Wish you a very happy new year then! 
> 
> As you may notice, this chapter contains a lot of the content in the original book, but please trust me it will get a lot more fun soon;)
> 
> Sorry that this is still not beta'd, and any constructive criticism is always welcome.

Things didn't get better the next day. He didn't talk to Voldemort, but he was aware of the other man observing him, whose stare made him self-loathing.

Harry guesses he shares the same view as Harry and hears what they say. This is so annoying. Harry fears that once he is able to contact the master of the soul, they will be finished. Here is an unremovable bug in his body, which will expose their whereabouts and plans, leaving them nowhere to hide — fantastic.

At dusk, he can bear no more and asks abruptly, "Can you get in touch with your other selves?"

Nothing comes to his mind. Harry tries to connect to Voldemort, and bumps into a wall.

 _Occlumency._ He thinks. At least this can send him a signal.

"I've warned you, Potter," finally Voldemort speaks. "Some punishment may carve it into your memory."

The only fake feeling that Voldemort allows him to feel is the agony controlled by certain levels of his rage. _But this is the only way._ Harry thinks, knowing it will be heard.

What he knows next is that he, again, nearly ends up writhing on the ground in pain. Only this time he puts a fist in his mouth, keeping himself silent.

"The newest version of Cruciatus Curse," he pants. "Now I know why you are so pleased."

"It apparently works."

"Answer my question, Voldemort." snaps Harry.

"Is that an order?"

"I don't believe you've never tried," says Harry. "But I don't think he can sense your thoughts, otherwise he would know that several Horcruxes of his are already gone."

"Bold assumption, Potter, but you are wrong," mocks Voldemort. "Two pieces of soul can definitely sense each other. If he is able to enter your mind, so am I to enter his."

Harry's face turns pale. He forces himself to calm down by pressing at his forehead. He can't let himself be led by the nose.

"Why are you telling me this? Wouldn't it be more useful if you kept it from me? If you think I'll be frightened, you are wrong. I know this is deception." Harry's fingers are trembling, "You are not going to help me, nor _him_."

"What are you talking about?"

"Riddle's diary didn't attempt to contact his master, but chose to kill me with his own hands, though he could barely form them. You are also a fragment of that man's soul, so you two must possess the same traits. You listen to nobody, not even your other self," says Harry slowly, contemplating. "Let me see...If he knows, he will come here to murder me, and you'll be killed, too. Maybe he values this piece of his broken soul enough to try retrieving it, but it's really hard to say. There's still a good chance that he will sacrifice you, especially when he has already made so many Horcruxes. It would't hurt _that_ much if he were to destroy one for his great cause, would it?"

No response comes from Voldemort, which soon bores Harry. He joins Ron and Hermione, who have again started discussing by his side where Voldemort could have possibly hidden his Horcruxes.

"Let's go over where he stayed one more time." There is a roll of parchment on Hermione's laps, which writes in large letters, "Orphanage" "Hogwarts" "Borgin and Burkes" "Albania"...

"Yeah, let’s go to Albania. Shouldn’t take more than an afternoon to search an entire country,” says Ron sarcastically.

“There can’t be anything there. He’d already made five of his Horcruxes before he went into exile, and Dumbledore was certain the snake is the sixth,” says Hermione, flipping her parchment scrolls. “We know the snake’s not in Albania, it’s usually with Vol —”

“Didn’t I ask you to _stop_ saying that?”

“Fine! The snake is usually with You-Know-Who — happy?”

"Not particularly.”

"I can’t see him hiding anything at Borgin and Burkes,” says Harry, who has made this point many times before, but said it again simply to break the nasty silence. “Borgin and Burke were experts at Dark objects, they would’ve recognised a Horcrux straightaway.”

Ron yawns pointedly. Repressing a strong urge to throw something at him, Harry plows on, “I still reckon he might have hidden something at Hogwarts.”

Somehow he senses that the other consciousness lurking in his mind just stirred, perhaps illusion again.

Hermione sighs, “But Dumbledore would have found it, Harry!”

“Dumbledore said in front of me that he never assumed he knew all of Hogwarts’s secrets. I’m telling you, if there was one place Vol —”

“Oi!”

“YOU-KNOW-WHO, then!” Harry shouts, goaded past endurance. “If there was one place that was really important to You-Know-Who, it was Hogwarts!”

“Oh, come on,” scoffs Ron. “His school?”

“Yeah, his school! It was his first real home, the place that meant he was special; it meant everything to him, and even after he left —”

“This is You-Know-Who we’re talking about, right? Not you?” inquires Ron. He is tugging at the chain of the Horcrux around his neck: Harry is visited by a desire to seize it and throttle him.

The night falls without any leads from the discussion. Harry takes the nightwatch outside, pulling his knees to the chest. They are staying in a grove. Dark clouds have covered the sky, while the branches rustle in the wicked winds, both indicating a heavy rain. Harry doesn't think Hermione's enchantments are waterproof, guessing he will have to cast a Flagrate himself when the rain comes.

The argument about Horcruxes has been haunting him all day. Although Hermione has refuted him, and he can't really deny how resonable her points were, the speculation seems preoccupying.

 _Hogwarts_. He is deep in meditation. _That man won't simply leave it out. There must be a way.._

"Hey, you awake?" attempts Harry silently. "Have you ever hidden a Horcrux at Hogwarts?"

Naturally, Voldemort ignores him. Harry refuses to be discouraged, knowing that he must have listened all the way along, so there is no need to keep anything from him.

"We've been talking about you all day. How does that make you feel?"

Something clicks in his head, like a breeze, followed by a snort.

"Foolish," he concludes coolly, though Harry has actually expected more mockery.

"Dumbledore figured it out. He reckoned that you had made seven Horcruxes in total, well, five before me, which were the Locket of Slytherin, Marvolo's ring, and the treasures of Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw," says Harry. There is no reply, but he feels the tense atmosphere, as if there was a transparent, giant hand taking hold of the back of his head. He shivers. "After you were split, he put the sixth piece in that snake. Of course, the seventh piece is intended to stay within himself."

"...'That snake'?" says Voldemort in a low voice, a dark one, echoing in his head as if it was freezing his soul.

"Don't ask me. You know better." Harry shrugs and holds his arms tighter, "Dumbledore said it was extremely risky to make living things into horcruxes."

"Risky, indeed." Implicature lies beneath the response.

Harry goes stiff for a second, hollowness taking over in his heart.

"Oh, so it is," flatly, he says. "You asked for it, didn't you?"

Harry prepares himself for the predictable wrath and torment, but nothing happens. Scratching his head in confusion, he can sense the contemplation of Voldemort.

"What was the exile in Albania?" After what seems to be ages, a sudden inquiry startles Harry from his nap. "What? ...Oh, it was about you," murmurs Harry, still sleepy. "You went there after your failed assassination."

"As a ghost," he adds, and comes up with a comment. "I've checked the distance between Britain and Albania on the map. Can't say it was easy for a ghost."

He has barely finished it before sensing something like a needle pining his head, which nearly draws out a yawp from him.

"Ouch — well then, I guess that means you are uninterested in answering why you went there." Arching his back, Harry rubs his twinging temple. "Have you hidden anything at Hogwarts or not?"

"You really think I'll answer?"

"I don't, but I think it annoys you."

He has to bite in his arm this time.

The rain starts in the middle of the night. He manages into the tent before the robe is completely soaked, while his forehead and temple continuously ache.

Ron has already fallen asleep in the dim light. Hermione sits up and looks towards him, rubbing her eyes, "It's my turn already?"

"No, not yet...The rain is too heavy outside." Harry sits down beside her, one hand under his chin. He lets out a sigh, "You can get some more sleep."

"Just stay inside if it's raining, in case you catch cold." Harry likes her advice. After a while, he lies down on the canvas of the tent.

 

In the next few days, Harry has barely talked to Voldemort. They have gone to another hideout. Hermione stole into a muggle library, and discovered that the orphanage was demolished years ago. Now an office building stands there.

"We could try digging in the foundations?" suggests Hermione halfheartedly.

"He wouldn't have hidden a Horcrux here." Harry kneels to feel the rough ground, eyes blinking under the dazzling sunlight that sends him a mild headache. There seems to be a dull pain in his scar, about which he is uncertain if it's mere illusion again.

In the afternoon, when they are resting near a purple swamp, Harry's scar stings again. He presses at it reflexively as realisation strikes him that this time the emotional upheaval is not from the piece inside, but from its master. Several images flash through his mind, vaguer than usual. Harry tries to look closely, but the images disppear before he can take a hold of them. He opens his eyes to find himself sitting on the ground and sweating profusely.

"What happened?" he murmurs at this unusual scenario. 

"You sound disappointed." The long gone voice has come back for the first time in these days. Harry sniffs.

"You made them disappear?"

"I believe you no longer need them."

"Thanks a lot for prying into it," he mutters, annoyed. "But I do prefer being harassed."

"I didn't expect you to like those 'Cruciatus Curses'," says Voldemort in a low voice, where Harry spots a trace of sarcasm.

"No. Only you would do it on purpose," retorts Harry coldly. "I value what I obtain despite pain."

"So you mean you are good at suffering."

"What— _no_! Damn it! That's not what I mean!" His face starts burning due to fury. Although everyone used to hope that he could master Occlumency to keep Voldemort out of his mind, he doesn't feel happy when it is suddenly realised.

"I reckon that I know what you mean very well." The man's voice is close, soft and silky. Harry can't be infuriated more, since it's like someone whispering in his ear. "You long for the information — about me."

"You're not saying you're embarrassed, are you?"

"Watch your mouth, Potter— "

"It's true that we talk about you all day, and that's the purpose, isn't it?" says Harry wryly. "You feel shy more easily than I expected, Voldemort."

The sharp pain in his scar rips a moan out of Harry, who falls to the damp ground with one hand supporting himself, his face instantly pale. The momentary smugness did him no good, but he just couldn't help.

"So you are good at suffering only because you never _learn_ ," says the man with cruelty.

Harry massages his reddened scar and wipes the dirt off his hand, meanwhile relieved by the fact that both Ron and Hermione are in the tent. However, this brings him another kind of upset, for he gradually notices that his friends seem to be having discussions without him recently, and once he enters the tent, they fall silent.

There is no clue in Horcrux searching. They have to apparate to different campsites constantly and take turns to wear the locket every twelve hours. Harry's scar pricks more often when he has the locket against his chest, which he doubts to be the trick of that piece of soul, since he can hardly distinguish the two pieces if there are no images or sounds.

He begins to suspect that his friends have become dissatisfied due to all the aimless vagrancy, while a potential secret plan is what they counted on initially. Ron never bothers to cover up his terrible mood. That's one thing, but Harry fears that Hermione will also be disappointed. Under such pressure, the only thing he can do is try to figure out where the other Horcruxes are hidden, but the answer seems always to be Hogwarts, which Ron and Hermione find impossible, so he never brings it up again.

He realises that he cannot ignore their attitudes, nor can he cease being paranoid. Once some signs are noticed, they become conspicuous inevitably. The sole choice left is to suppress this suspicion, consequently leaving it to his "listener".

"If you did't foolishly depend on your so-called _friends_ , you could have made much larger progress."

When Harry hears this, he is setting up the tent with Ron and Hermione in the autumn woods, golden leaves fallen everywhere. The number of dememtors wandering about has risen. The iciness of their breath, mixed with natural mist, spreads penetrating despair in the air.

Harry is too clever to take any advice from Voldemort, so he snorts instead of responding.

"At least, it reduces the time wasted on self-pity."

"No one is pitying himself," scoffs Harry in his mind. There is a damp sod near the woods, where he and Hermione bend down in an endeavor of identifying edible fungi. The night winds through the woods are freezing, causing him to shiver.

"I can grasp any thought from you, Potter."

Silently, Harry stoops to reach for two white mushrooms and throw them into his basket. Wiping the sweat off his forehead, he forces his frozen legs to move in search of more fungi.

"If you were alone, you wouldn't need so much food... Neither would you need to put up with complaints," says the man casually. Harry grips the basket unconsciously. He knows this is when he should rebuke the man for his ignorance about friendship. However, he cannot pull a single word out, because Voldemort just vocalised his deep-buried thoughts.

"They disagree with your ideas, while they themselves have no better ones... You are being hindered, Potter."

"You are rather talkative today."

"I never called myself taciturn."

"You could have pretended not existing — like you did a few days ago," he says coolly, his the glasses misting over his breath. His feet are almost completely numb, the rough cloth of socks twined between his toes, hands cold as ice. Still, there is only a thin layer of fungi at the bottom of the basket, and Hermione has disappeared.

"Time to go back for rest, Potter." Voldemort's voice is soft and low. For the second time, Harry thinks he makes sense.

 

They failed to collect enough food for dinner, so Ron's complaints came back. The next day, he goes to the river in attempt to catch some fish. The Accio charm has been more efficient than he imagined. Whereas, looking at the lumps of charred grey fish on his plate, Harry has to admit that their life sees little improvement.

"My mother," initiates Ron, prodding the fish on his plate, "can make good food appear out of thin air."

Harry glances automatically and sees, as he expected, the golden chain of the Horcrux, thus suppressing the impulse to swear at Ron.

"Your mother can't produce food out of thin air," says Hermione, "no one can. Food is the first of the five Principal Exceptions to Gamp's Law of Elemental Transfigur —"

"Oh, speak English, can't you?"

"It's impossible to make food out of nothing! You can summon it if you know where it is, you can transform it, you can increase the quantity if you've already got some—"

"Well, don't bother increasing this. It's disgusting," says Ron.

"Harry caught the fish and I did my best with it! I notice I'm always the one who ends up sorting out the food, because I'm a _girl_ , I suppose!" She flushes, losing control of her volume.

"No, it's because you're supposed to be the best at magic!" shoots back Ron.

Hermione jumps up and bits of roast pikes slide off the tin plate onto the floor.

" _You_ can do the cooking tomorrow, Ron, _you_ can find the ingredients and try and charm them into something worth eating, and I'll sit here and pull faces and moan—"

This happens once or twice every day. Harry never joins them. He shuts his mouth when Hermione is speaking, and Hermione shuts hers when he's speaking. It's become an unvoiced agreement. But even though he keeps silent, he is secretly on Hermione's side. It was no easy task to prepare meals, for he never hunted before and nor did Hermione ever cook. This is the best they can bring on the table, but some patient just shows no gratitude.

"Discouraged, aren't you?"

Harry nearly drops his fork before he holds it tighter.

"If it were you, injured, you would be able to endure. "

At those words, he can't help recalling life with the Dursleys, how he was constantly hungry and how they made him live in the cupboard or the attic. It got better after he entered Hogwarts, but those memories, living under the roof of another household, never truly left him. The Weasleys may not be wealthy, but they sure wouldn't let Ron starve. He might leave home with the belief that this would just be some exciting adventure...

"You informed them of the danger, but they wouldn't listen... This is not your fault, Potter," says Voldemort softly.

Yes, he did, even before they set off. He planned to hunt the Horcruxes on his own anyway. He was so happy when Ron and Hermione firmly told him that they wanted to help.

Harry feels hollow somewhere inside. He immediately comes to reason, shaking his head violently as if he was trying to shake the whisper in his head off. What was he thinking? He really shouldn't be listening to Voldemort. That was sheer delusion, and he mustn't believe a single word.

"You 'mustn't believe'? Not even your own thoughts? No one knows better than you, Potter..." viciously, the devil points it out.

Harry makes a futile attempt to suppress panic. His mind is under the scrutiny of the man, who doesn't even need to surmise his thoughts, the idea sickening him. What's worse is that even when he roars against Voldemort, there is a tiny voice saying that the man was right, that the spite is his own after all, merely dug out and exaggerated.

Harry pulls the plate aside and looks up, Ron and Hermione still arguing. "Shut up!" He yells, leaping to his feet and holding both of his hands. "Shut up _now_!"

They've both turned to his direction. Hermione looks outraged.

"How can you side with him, he hardly ever does the cook —"

"Hermione, be quiet, I can hear someone!"

Harry holds his breath, listening hard. Then, over the rush and gush of the dark river beside them, he hears voices again. He looks around at the Sneakoscope, which is not moving. 

“You cast the Muffliato charm over us, right?” he whispers to Hermione.

“I did everything,” she whispers back, “Muffliato, Muggle-Repelling and Disillusionment Charms, all of it. They shouldn’t be able to hear or see us, whoever they are.” 

They draw their wands, waiting. Heavy scuffing and scraping noises, plus the sound of dislodged stones and twigs, are particularly suspicious in the darkness. The voices become louder and nearer. Hermione snatches up the bead bag, draws out three Extendable Ears and throws one each to Harry and Ron, who hastily insert the ends of the flesh-coloured strings into their ears and feed the other ends out of the tent.

Within seconds Harry hears voices way clearer than before, from two men and two goblins, who are fishing, laughing once in a while.

Harry listens harder and unexpectedly hears Dean Thomas, their roommate at Hogwarts, among them. They even begin to talk about an event at school — Ginny, with a flock of students, tried to steal the sword of Gryffindor from Snape's office. Harry's fingers around the string stiffen, his body in fever at one moment, in ice at another. The violent heartbeats cause him nausea.

"She and a couple of friends got into Snape’s office and smashed open the glass case where he was apparently keeping the sword. Snape caught them as they were trying to smuggle it down the staircase.” 

Harry glanced toward Hermione and Ron, both of whom were clutching the Extendable Ears as tightly as lifelines. 

"Ah, God bless ’em, what did they think, that they’d be able to use the sword on You-Know-Who? Or on Snape himself ?” 

“Well, whatever they thought they were going to do with it, Snape decided the sword wasn’t safe where it was. Couple of days later, once he’d got the say-so from You-Know-Who, I imagine, he sent it down to London to be kept in Gringotts instead.” 

The two goblins laugh harder.

“I’m still not seeing the joke,” says Ted.

“It’s a fake,” rasps the Goblin.

“The sword of Gryffindor!”

“Oh yes. It is a copy — an excellent copy, it is true — but it was Wizard-made. The original was forged centuries ago by goblins and had

certain properties only goblin-made armour possesses. Wherever the genuine sword of Gryffindor is, it is not in a vault at Gringotts bank.”

Harry's mind is so occupied with this information that he nearly forgets to continue listening. The sword in the Headmaster's office is a fake — Snape didn't know, so he punished those kids — Ginny — the sword in Gringotts is a copy— Goblins — Ginny — It's been so long since he contacted with the world outside there, and it's been too long since _that name_ fell on the tip of his tongue. Her sweet face appears in his vision, and he can't help depicting her features, speculating on her situation in anxiety and agony, his hands gripping into fists. A sarcastic snort in his head gets him out of perplexity, Harry shaking his head back to consciousness.

“I know Harry Potter,” Dean's voice reaches them through the Extendable Ears. “And I reckon he’s the real thing — the Chosen One, or whatever you want to call it.” 

Harry ignores another snort.

Their voices gradually turn low, and quiet down at last, only the chattering of knifes and forks left. When they speak again, it was discussing whether they ought to sleep on the bank or retreat to the wooded slope. Deciding the trees would give better cover, they extinguish the fire, pack up the covers and climb up the slop, their voices fading away.

Harry looks at his friends, gaping. Thousands of things seem to be rushing out of his mouth, but in the end he is unable to say more than, "Ginny — the sword —"

“I know!” exclaims Hermione. She lunges for the tiny beaded bag, this time sinking her arm in it right up to the armpit.

“Here... we... are...” she says between gritted teeth, and she pulls at something that was evidently in the depths of the bag. Slowly the edge of an ornate picture frame comes into sight. Harry hurries to help her, as they lift an empty portrait out. He doesn't remember his heart ever beating this fast.

This is the portrait of Phineas Nigellus at 12 Grimmauld Place, and there is another one of the same person in Headmaster's office. He probably knows something about the sword. They stare at the portrait hopefully, and the instant Phineas slides in, Hermione shoots an Obscurus Charm at him, which draws a series of complaints from the former Headmaster.

They press him about what happened to the students, about where the sword went, about every message seemingly useful. Harry and Hermione are still in intense discussion after Phineas' leaving, pacing back and forth in the tent, gazing at each other with glittering eyes.

“The sword can destroy Horcruxes! Goblin-made blades imbibe only that which strengthen them — Harry, that sword’s impreg- nated with basilisk venom!” 

“And Dumbledore didn’t give it to me because he still needed it, he wanted to use it on the locket —”

“— and he must have realised they wouldn’t let you have it if he put it in his will —”

“— so he made a copy —”

“— and put a fake in the glass case —”

“— and he left the real one — where?”

They gaze at each other; Harry feels that the answer was dangling invisibly in the air above them, tantalisingly close. 

"Where — where could he have left it? Hey Ron, what d' you reckon?" asks Harry subconsciously, but he gets no response. He looks around, almost thinking Ron is not in the tent until he finds him lying in the shadow of the lower bunk, looking stony.

"Oh, remembered me, have you?"

"What?"

Ron snorts as he stares up at the underside of the upper bunk.

“You two carry on. Don’t let me spoil your fun.”

Confused, Harry looks to Hermione for help, but she shakes her head, apparently as nonplussed as he was.

"Your friend is upset," says Voldemort after the long silence of him, obviously interested in the current scene. "He probably wishes you could bow and scrape to him like an house elf, Potter."

"Shut up." Harry says coldly; meanwhile Ron's voice becomes louder, “It’s not like I’m not having the time of my life here. You know, with my arm mangled and nothing to eat and freezing my backside off every night. I just hoped, you know, after we’d been running round a few weeks, we’d have achieved something.” 

"Makes a lot of sense," comments Voldemort, "your achievement still can't satisfy him."

"I thought you know what you'd signed up for." Pursing his lips, Harry feels a fire in his chest, uncertain if that is his anger against Ron or something else.

"Yeah, I thought I did too."

“So what part of it isn’t living up to your expectations?” asks Harry in a loud voice. “Did you think we’d be staying in five-star hotels? Finding a Horcrux every other day? Did you think you’d be back to Mummy by Christmas?” 

"We thought you knew what you were doing!” shouts Ron, standing up, and his words pierce Harry like scalding knives. “We thought Dumbledore had told you what to do, we thought you had a real plan!” 

"Ron!"

"It would be unwise to continue, Potter."

"Go to hell! Stop telling me what to do!" He growls in his mind.

 

Later that day, he realises Voldemort was right.

 

TBC.

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tables turned.

When Harry wakes up the following day, it takes him a long time, staring at the canvas of tent above his head, to realise what happened last night. It takes him more to relieve a bit of the weight on his chest, and accept everything.

He and Ron had a terrible quarrel, spitting out all their problems with each other. The secret suspicion came to reality, wiping out the only traces of joy left. Denouncement between the two, Hermione's sobs, Ron's shouting that he had it enough and had no reason to stay... They would have fought each other if Hermione hadn't cast a Shield Charm, but it was also the last straw. When the girl removed it and rushed into the rain after Ron, he had already disapparated.

Harry lies still in the bed, though he should have got up normally. Hermione is also in bed, but judging from the rhythm of her breath and the rustling sounds, she must be awake, just lying there in denial as he does.

A few minutes passed. Taking a deep breath, Harry slowly climbs down from his bed and glances at the empty lower bunk. Ron really left them.

They spend an hour more than usual to pack up. Hermione's eyes are so red and puffy, indicating that she might haven't slept a wink. They look around the woods, hoping to find a red head, but there is nothing except some black birds, taking off from the bush every now and then.

Finally having entirely repacked the beaded bag three times, Hermione seems unable to find any more reasons to delay: She and Harry grasp hands and disapparate, reappearing on a windswept heather-covered hillside. 

The instant they arrive, Hermione drops Harry’s hand and walks away from him. She sits down on a large rock, her face against her knees, shaking with what he knew were sobs. He watches her, supposing that he ought to go and comfort her, but something keeps him rooted to the spot. Everything inside him feels cold and tight: Again he sees the contemptuous expression on Ron’s face. Harry strides off through the heather, walking in a large circle with the distraught Hermione at its center, casting the spells she usually performed to ensure their protection. 

"Muffliato... Repello Muggletum... Salvio Hexia..."

Invisible enchantments have enveloped them. Additionally, Harry casts a windproof charm, so that Hermione won't need to curl up herself so tight. Under the circumstance even Voldemort ceases gloating, but Harry can tell he's been staring, ready to pick fault with him. He has never truly mastered Disillusionment Charm, probably because there is always the Invisibility Cloak. Harry turns around when patted on the back, seeing Hermione stand behind him, rubbing her eyes. "I'll do it," she says in a low voice, taking over Harry's job with fitful small sobs.

The wind brings the mesmerising and spicy scent of the heather. In a daze, Harry sits down on the same rock where Hermione did, his mind tangled with thoughts.

 _What next?_ Harry struggles in confusion. He doesn't know if he has actually uttered the question, but a voice responds to him.

"Get used to it."

To _what_? Harry still feels lost, but somehow his heartbeats have steadied.

 

Harry has never mentioned Ron over the next few days, and Hermione seems to know it's no use forcing the issue. Their conversations about the Horcruxes and the sword of Gryffindor — gradually less frequent and increasingly boring — have all gone to dead ends. Sometimes Harry can't determine which one of Ron and Dumbledore infuriates him more. Nearly every one of the nights passes in silence, and he stares either at the dark ceiling in the tent, lying in bed, or at the dark sky, sitting outside, which makes no difference anyway.

"You must be bored," he says to the unwanted guest inside him one night. "No progress, no decent food or proper sleep, people out there are dying all the time..."

"You worry that she will also leave eventually," the man's words hit dead on target.

Harry pauses,deprived of his usual retort.

_It's nothing. He can detect what he thinks from the very beginning._

"I guess I was crazy to involve them in this aimless quest," he murmurs, rubbing his forehead like a habit. He suddenly feels it's meaningless to tell Voldemort these things. _How could someone, who left his "friends" in the snow storm waiting for him to apply for a teaching position, possibly understand?_

"I heard that, Potter."

"I was right," states Harry in a straightforward manner, tired of pretending. "Wasn't your purpose that day stealing some treasure of the House founders to make Horcruxes? Yet Dumbledore stopped you."

Voldemort sneers, but Harry simply keeps going, "I agree with him on that you never truly regarded those people as your friends. You've got a lot of servants, but not even one friend."

"I don't need any," he replies with contempt.

Nothing out of Harry's expectation. Voldemort has no friend, nor does he need one. He only trusts himself and accomplishes everything alone.

"So why am I telling you this?" mutters Harry, frustrated. The wind are sweeping in the woods again, its moans seemingly starting from somewhere remote. Under the starry sky, he sighs at the thought that he only has his nemesis in company for some heart-to-heart talks — how ridiculous.

Over these days, they place the portrait of Phineas on Ron's bed, as though he might fill part of the gaping hole left by Ron’s departure. Despite his previous assertion that he would never visit them again, Phineas Nigellus did not seem able to resist the chance to find out more about what Harry was up to, and consented to reappear every couple of days. Thus, Harry and Hermione have learnt much about things happening at Hogwarts, such as Snape having to cope with the resilient defiance from a constant, low level of mutiny from a hard core of students. He had reinstated Umbridge’s old decree forbidding gatherings of three or more students or any unofficial student societies. Ginny was banished from Hogsmeade.

Harry deduces that Ginny, and probably Neville and Luna along with her, have been doing their best to continue Dumbledore’s Army. This scant news makes Harry want to see Ginny so badly it feels like a stomachache; but it also makes him think of Ron again, and of Dumbledore, and of Hogwarts itself, which he misses nearly as much as his ex-girlfriend. As Phineas Nigellus talked about Snape’s crackdown, Harry experienced a split second of madness when he imagined simply going back to school to join the destabilisation of Snape’s regime, which vanished within a second. He was perfectly clear that it wa no less dangerous, as _Undesirable No.1_ , to enter Hogwarts than to enter the Ministry.

"Severus Snape..."

"I thought you had read through my memories."

"Memory cannot be _'read'_ , stupid boy. It's not a book," he mocks.

"Snape said something like that," Harry rolls his eyes, "he was the one who tired teaching me Occlumency, totally futile."

"Not hard to speculate."

"He did me a _favour_ then." Harry can sense Voldemort snatching his memories unbridledly, as though he was merely scooping a handful of water from the river of his memory. On mentioning Snape, he recalls a bunch of nasty experiences, which exactly serve Voldemort for unravelling his other self's doing.

It feels... weird. It's never been so weird. Even though he could sense someone's stare before, and knew that his mind was being read, it's different to offer the access to his past so generously to another consciousness — other than Snape in those horrible Occlumency courses.

"It's amusing to watch you in class, Potter," says Voldemort lazily, who just sort of laughed. Harry finds it so hateful that he nearly gives in to the urge to slap himself, which might repel the voice. He tries hard to stop his mind from wandering, but the memories intended to remain unknown keep emerging against his will.

"Let me see... What is _this_?" The undertone in Voldemort's words has Harry alert. He subconsciously covers his eyes, though realising such defence would be useless instantly. He doesn't know what is spotted, but he _knows_ it can't be something good.

"Enough. I guess you have a habit rooting around in your servants' brains."

"Sometimes you have to look through the rubbish for something valuable," he says, "although I do notice that you store more rubbish than others in your brain."

Nothing feels worse than not being able to give vent to one's anger.

"Great, my definition of 'rubbish' is just the opposite to yours," he snaps.

"Your standard doesn't matter to me," says the man quietly. "However, there being an abundance of time, I wouldn't mind listening to what the legendary Boy-Who-Lived thinks."

"I'm in no mood to tell."

"Rather obvious, but it's not up to you."

Harry shrinks at a gentle touch on the nape of his neck and turns around, but nothing is behind him. The sensation feels as nice as floating freely in the water... Vaguely he is aware how wrong this is, genuinely wrong... An icy touch makes his back stiffen and startles him out of the haze. Harry finds himself lying on the ground, feeling weak all over. "Damn it," he mutters while sitting up, hand pressed on his forehead. "What have you _done_ to me?"

"I 'rooted around'."

"You made a huge sacrifice to lower yourself then. What have you found?"

"Something interesting. You hold your friends and family dear, and —"

"Something you don't have yourself, apparently," Harry cuts in before he could utter profanity. "It must be agonising to look into my memories, isn't it?"

"— And, you are always picturing that red-head girl in your walnut-sized brain."

Harry gapes, tongue-tied, unable to speak anything but, "What?"

In an attempt to avoid mockery, he quickly adds, "It's none of your business."

"Sure it's not," says Voldemort impatiently, "I mean, she is your friend."

"— More than that." Harry swallows, caught in a small swirl of emotions. He knows it would be no use trying to hide it from the man, but he still feels uncomfortable.

"True. There's something unique."

His discomfort is increased.

"Wait, are you saying — No, how can it be possible that you don't _understand_?"

"Make it clear, Potter."

Harry swallows again. It's unbelievable. Perhaps Voldemort heard about it — a boy's love for a girl or vice versa, but he has no idea what it's _like._ He is oblivious.

Harry isn't too surprised. If Voldemort scoffs at friendship or family love, he certainly won't be able to understand romantic love. In the prophecy, he is said to have power the Dark Lord knows not, which Dumbledore insisted should be love. Now he sees the reason — Voldemort truly knows not.

"The _prophecy_?"

Harry rolls his eyes in realisation, "Peeping, weren't you?"

"That's not the point, but the prophecy—"

"It means unless you can understand what it is between me and Ginny, you will never defeat me," Harry starts twaddling, though he considers it partly true.

"You are lying."

"You know I'm not." Harry shrugs. "Dumbledore said that you were incredibly ignorant about specific things."

A sharp pain bursts in his temple, apparently signalling Voldemort's fury, which his Occlumency fails to conceal. Unexpectedly, he manages to contain himself, and Harry has even recognised something like... Fear? But _why_?

"You mean, there is power unknown to me between you and that girl?" He says slowly in a low, doubtful voice.

"It lies not only between Ginny and me, but also in the sacrifice my parents made for me. I know you reckon that I'm still standing here because I got lucky, or some unknown ancient magic worked. But there has been more. Dumbledore helped me, my friends helped, and so did the teachers plus other adults. You really think I'm alive merely because of luck and some sort of magical tactics?" Harry finishes his speech, leaving the other one no chances to interrupt.

"Sheer _luck_ , Potter!" He sounds like an approaching tempest, but Harry's not frightened in the slightest.

"You can't just attribute every victory of your enemies to luck, unless you dare not face the truth," says Harry, "or, you are actually afraid that I do have power unknown to you."

After a moment of silence, Voldemort says coldly, "So you believe that you, a wizard who just reached adulthood, is capable of vanquishing the greatest dark wizard in the history with the power you mentioned?"”

"I'm not sure, but _you_ undoubtedly believe so."

"Nonsense, Potter."

"...You are really troubled by that prophecy, aren't you?"

"A pointless question." He sneers.

"Of course not. You marked me for it! Otherwise why would you go to kill an infant you didn't even know?" Harry is on the edge of shouting, his blood boiling. "It's all your fault, Voldemort. You did this to me. You punished someone for things he had not done yet, so what else could you expect except hatred?"

His mind is a mess now, unable to generate any thoughts, while the man seems like a calm observer, perfectly immune to his emotions.

"I discern rage and resentment in your heart, Potter... You hope I could _understand_ , right?" The pitch of the last syllable rises a bit, resembling the feeling of an icy touch on his nerves. Harry feels defeated all at once. _Right. What has he been doing?_ It's ridiculous trying to get Voldemort to understand his misfortune. Asking Kreacher to laud Sirius would stand a better chance.

"No, and I should go to sleep," he says. "Good night."

 

Each night before he sleeps, he makes a wish that they could find some traces of the Horcruxes or the sword, or that Ron could appear out of thin air, or that, he thinks desperately, his enemy could get out of his head. He's already fed up.

These days he talks more to Voldemort than to Hermione. He wouldn't have predicted that one day they could chat peacefully. When he realises getting irritated is not helpful at all and an extra burden, he learns to avoid involving those irreconcilable opinions. Again and again, he talks about Ron, about the Weasleys, about Hermione, about the two boys he hates most — Dudley Dursley and Draco Malfoy. He guesses that the man should be really impatient by now, but he doesn't mind annoying him a little bit more.

"Mrs Weasley is really nice. She prepares Christmas presents for Hermione and me every year," he says, "The Dursleys only sent me toothpicks and napkins."

"The sweater embroidered with a dragon?" Voldemort suddenly asks.

"...I don't recall telling you about this."

"I remember something."

Harry pauses, shifting his sitting posture and putting his hands on the knees, "Your memories are back?"

"No, merely something vague."

He muses for a while and asks, "How does it feel to stay in me?"

"What point are you trying to make?"

"Since you've been staying here this long, haven't you ever, well, waken up for once? Like, when he possessed me — no? Or, haven't you ever planned an escape?" asks Harry hesitantly. He's been contemplating this for a while, and Voldemort knows what he's struggling with, though he has never offered an answer.

"Never, or you would have died long ago, Potter," says Voldemort sharply.

"But you are awake now. How do you feel?" Harry tries to push him.

"Extremely annoyed," he says coldly. "No matter what you actually wants to ask... The fragment of soul cannot survive without its container. I thought you had such knowledge."

"The last fragment I met lived in a diary. I guess you're better accommodated."

"You're having fun, aren't you?" he says in a deep voice, from which Harry can't tell whether he is angry. "If you truly wish to learn, Potter, it's comfortable 'staying in you'... Your vitality exceeds many. Everything clear?"

Harry goes speechless for a moment, while a blush somehow spreads over his cheeks. Murmuring "I won't bother to learn", he decides to leave the man alone.

 

By now, they are tired of meandering up and down the country day after day. Harry feels that everything is exhausting him, even opening his eyes. Flipping the newspaper which he picked up from the street, he finds it increasingly harder to suppress a certain desire. It's about time that he should bring it up, so he carefully chooses a proper situation — when the weather is fine and they have just eaten an unusually good meal. Hermione had been to a supermarket under the Invisibility Cloak (scrupulously dropping the money into an open till as she left). With a full stomach, Harry clears his throat and utters, "Hermione? I want to go to Godric’s Hollow."

“Yes,” Hermione looks up from a book. “Yes, I really think we’ll have to.”

Harry is stunned, all the reasons he prepared beforehand suddenly unnecessary. Hermione hands the book to him — _Tales of Beedle the Bard,_ the one Dumbledore gave her in his will. Harry frowns at the sight of it, "I've never taken Ancient Runes, Hermione."

"it isn’t a rune and I've never seen it in the syllabary, either," says Hermione, "It’s been inked in and it's everywhere, Harry! It looks like an eye. Have you ever seen it before?"

Harry leans in to take a closer look of the symbol she is pointing at, which looks like a triangle eye, with a line in the middle of the pupil.

"Isn’t it the same symbol Luna’s dad was wearing round his neck?" he says after some thinking.

Before leaving for the hunt, they attended the wedding of Bill and Fleur, where Luna's father went with the exact symbol on his necklace.

“Well, that’s what I thought too!”

“Then it’s Grindelwald’s mark.”

" _What?_ "

Harry recounts the story that Viktor Krum told him at the wedding. Hermione looks astonished, eyes almost bulged.

" _Grindelwald's mark_? ...If it’s a symbol of Dark Magic, what’s it doing in a book of children’s stories?"

"Yeah, it is weird."

She does not speak, but continues to pore over the strange mark, so Harry tries again, "Hermione, I've been thinking. I — I want to go to Godric's Hollow."

"Oh, Harry." Hermione finally puts down her _Spellman′s Syllabary_. "Yeah, I think we should. I always think the sword of Gryffindor might be there."

"Hmm?"

"Godric’s Hollow is Godric Gryffindor’s birthplace and it was named after him." Harry still looks puzzled, and Hermione sighs, "Harry, did you ever even open _A History of Magic_?"

“Erm, maybe I did,” he says, cracking a sheepish smile. “I might’ve opened it, you know, when I bought it... just the once...”

"Godric's Hollow, Godric Gryffindor, the sword, don't you think Dumbledore expected you to associate them together?" she says, eyes focused on him.

"Ah, right..."

Harry doesn't want to admit that he had not been thinking about the sword when he suggested they go to Godric's Hollow. Over these days, he has been dwelling in the past, his heart overwhelmed with memories, but once he pulls himself out of reminiscence, all the delusional warmness vanishes, leaving him empty and numb. He only listened to Sirius and Remus describing his home, somewhere he belongs other than Hogwarts, somewhere, though in ruins, far better than the house at Privet Drive. Moreover, he learnt at the wedding that Bathilda Bagshot, who lives there, is an old friend of Dumbledore, about whom he recently holds much doubt and confusion, hoping she would be able to remove them.

"You know Bathilda Bagshot?" asks Harry, "She also lives in Godric's Hollow."

"You mean the author of _A History of Magic_?" Hermione blinks.

"Erm, I think so. She's a friend of Dumbledore's."

" _Oh_ , don't you think Dumbledore could have entrusted the sword to her?" Her face lights up. Harry hesitates to reply as he reckons it is unlikely. According to Aunt Muriel, she was “gaga”, so wouldn't it be too risky for Dumbledore to entrust the sword to her? However, since Hermione now sees eye to eye with him on where they are heading for, Harry keeps his mouth shut about it. Instead, he says, “Yeah, he might have! So, are we going to go to Godric’s Hollow?”

“Yes, but we’ll have to think it through carefully, Harry. We'll need to practise Disillusionment Charms. And we may have to use Polyjuice Potion, in which case some hair is needed... Or do you think it's better to just use Polyjuice Potion from the beginning?” With a specific objective, Hermione suddenly becomes as excited as he is, actively planning for their operation. Harry lets her talk, nodding and agreeing whenever there is a pause, but his mind has left the conversation.

He is finally going home, the place where he had stayed for the earliest year of his life. He remembers little now. The faces reflected in the Mirror of Erised have faded, and the memories constantly snatched by the Dementors only leave him with their chaotic steps and screams. The green light, ever so distant, has never been so near in his sight. But for Voldemort, he would have grown up there, could have celebrated his seventeenth birthday with his parents, should have been no different to any ordinary kid in the Wizarding World...

"Potter."

"Anyone sensible should know it's not the right time to _talk_." Reluctantly, he drags himself out of the fantasies, also out of the good mood. "I didn't foresee you could truly be _shameless_."

"You are going where you called home, right?"

"Obviously! And where you were ended, where, as I heard, your burnt corpse was found —" A piercing pain bursts in his brain before the sentence is finished. Harry immediately bites in his arm and bends down, his back arching while he pants. Hermione gives him a concerned look and asks in worry, "What's wrong?"

"No — nothing," he responds between inhaling sounds, in a quite strange voice.

She still stares at him with disbelief. Harry keeps his head down until he climbs onto his bed to bury it in the pillow. The softness and darkness soothe the pain.

"Was it real that someone found my 'burnt corpse'?" the man hisses coolly in his mind. Harry ignores him, covering the pillow around his head.

"Answer me, Potter."

"Enough! I don't know! Just somebody said so — or I could simply be bluffing," Harry growls. "I don't think a killing curse would burn, so maybe you just exploded the whole damn house."

"What a miracle, then, that you lived." His voice icy.

"I think so, too," Harry's voice rumbles beneath the pillow. "I don't understand... You could make a new body for yourself with no difficulty, so why do you still care?"

"Wouldn't _you_?"

Harry tries to imagine his own body displayed in front of the world. He swallows.

"I'll probably be okay with it," slowly, he says. "There must be some audience when you're buried, such as your family and friends, so it will be okay. If I should, erm, be in the same unfortunate situation as you did, I would accept the fate."

" _Accept the fate_?" Voldemort scoffs.

"I mean, I don't really care what others might think, what stories they might make of my death. I've heard enough about it even when I'm still alive, but I know those whom I actually cherish will never buy it. That should be enough. I only care about what they think."

"Like those you've been continuously talking about?"

"Right." Harry can't help but smiles. "I know you're pretty annoyed."

"How can you be sure that they would trust you?" says the man in a low voice. "How can you be sure that they would be wiser than the lot and wouldn't be deceived by rumours."

"It's not about wisdom. It's about mutual trust between friends. They know who I am."

Voldemort goes silent for some time, and Harry seems to hear the man's breaths in his head, light as sand, rising and falling.

"You have offered them trust, but they can still betray you."

Harry frowns at his words, which would sound more vicious if it weren't so unconvincing. He suddenly comes to realisation and asks, "Are you referring to those Death Eaters who betrayed you?"

No reply comes from Voldemort.

"They betrayed you after your 'death', claiming they were unwillingly under control. Is that what you were trying to say?"

Still no reply. But it's the best reply. Harry can sense some of his emotions, fury — against the Death Eaters as well as against him; confusion, and perhaps a vestige of fear. He doesn't understand. Harry is aware of the fact. _He doesn't understand why he would be betrayed._ In other words, he doesn't know why his servants' loyalty could be so inconsistent. Almost in a flash, his fortress of darkness collapsed, and every dweller fled, only a handful believing that he could revive. Nobody ever attempted to find him. Even though he had proved long ago that he was the most powerful dark wizard over a century, they would rather believe that he was defeated by a one-year-old _infant_.

"Erm... there were probably many causes, but I think it was due to the lack of trust at the end of the day," says Harry after musing.

"I offered them enough trust." The man interrupts him coldly.

"No, you didn't. You didn't assign any significant mission to them, did you? You wouldn't let them have your back, so although you claimed that you trusted them, you actually trusted no one deep down there."

"I entrusted a Horcrux to Lucius, and I thought —"

"You thought he would keep it safe, right? But if you really had wanted him to, you should have told him it was a Horcrux, whereas you just didn't. He might think it was merely some object of dark magic... See? That was where you lack trust." Voldemort remains silent when he speaks.

"Fully trusting somebody or not can be detected in your everyday interaction. One can sense whether you are keeping things from him. Since you never invest full trust, you can't really expect genuine loyalty." He carries on with his little speech, and Voldemort sneers, slowly starting his own.

"Full trust? If you were in my position, Harry, you would find it impossible. You can talk like that only because you are weak, and nobody covets your throne..."

"But everywhere there are people who want to kill me, or kidnap me for rewards. If you were right, I shouldn't be believing anybody. I should have been all on my own," Harry exclaims in his brain in a higher volume.

"Some so-called friend has already abandoned you."

"He'll be back," says Harry, "I bet on it."

"I also thought those traitors would come back." Voldemort scorns his assurance.

"I dare you make a bet. Ron is different, and he will come back for us," he says stubbornly, though he is not really sure, knowing that even if Ron actually wants to find them, the wards Hermione put up will prevent him, but he just can't give in on this.

"As far as it turned out, he was merely a spoiled boy, capable of nothing but complaining. It's far easier to win your trust than I imagined," he says half-heartedly.

"You dare make a bet or not?" Harry decides not to be swayed.

"You will regret this impulsive decision in the future... What does the winner get?"

"Hmmm — "

"I suggest a time limit, otherwise we may never see an end of this bet," he banters.

"Not necessary. If I win, let me think — you'll fulfil a request for me, and I'll decide then."

"I sincerely hope you won't go too far." Harry imagines he would be narrowing his eyes if he had a concrete form.

"Must be something you can accomplish," says Harry. "Alright, your turn."

"I'll also decide then," says Voldemort lazily, not particularly engaged. Harry grits his teeth.

 

Harry would gladly have set out for Godric’s Hollow the following day, but Hermione had other ideas. Convinced as she was that Voldemort would expect Harry to return to the scene of his parents’ deaths, she was determined that they would set off only after they had ensured that they had the best disguises possible. Voldemort himself sneered at her concern.

They had surreptitiously obtained hairs from innocent Muggles and practised disapparating and apparating repetitively. After a week, Hermione finally agreed to make the journey. They were to apparate to the village under cover of darkness, so it was late afternoon when they finally swallowed Polyjuice Potion.

Before leaving, Harry secretly reaches into Hermione's beaded bag for his backpack, and find the album Hagrid gave him years ago. It has been a long time since the last time he opened it, and the smiles of the man and the woman seem to age with the yellowing pictures. They are waving to him, and Harry's gaze is fixed on their faces, his fingers trailing over the picture.

"Let's go, Harry," Hermione calls behind him. He closes the album and takes the Polyjuice Potion, transforming into a balding, middle-aged Muggle man, Hermione into his small and rather mousy wife. The beaded bag containing all of their possessions is tucked into an inside pocket of Hermione’s buttoned-up, thick coat. Harry lowers the Invisibility Cloak over them. Holding hands, they are enveloped by the suffocating darkness once again.

They have landed on the soft snow, borderless black and white around them. The wind blows into his collar, where Harry tries to hide his neck. Looking back, he finds them at the foot of a hill when Hermione lets out a small cry, "God, we'll leave footprints! Why didn't we think of snow?"

She gets rid of the prints with magic, but Harry, refusing to clumsily cover their track, takes off the Clock, stows it under his jacket and takes her hand.

"Harry!"

"Come on. No one's watching, and not to mention we've used Polyjuice Potion," he says in a hoarse voice.

They traverse in the snow, hair beside their temples and the fur balls on the top of their beanies swinging in the rumbling, icy winds. Harry pulls his beanie over his ears, his nose now red with cold. Thankfully, Hermione casts Impervius Charms to make them more comfortable.

They take their time to make way forward, passing the snow-covered houses. Harry looks around; each one of them could have been the house where James and Lily lived, or the one Bathilda Bagshot now lives in. He glances at those heavy wooden doors, tall iron fences and lifeless gardens, trying to identify an image stored in his memory while knowing it's rather unlikely. He was a little more than one, so what could he remember? He didn't even remember who took him from the house that night... Hagrid told Harry that it was him who took him to Dumbledore from that destroyed cottage. He is not even sure whether he will be able to see the cottage at all; he does not know what happened when the subjects of a Fidelius Charm died...

Then the little lane along which they are walking curves to the left and the heart of the village, a small square, is revealed to them. Strung all around with coloured lights, there is what looks like a war memorial in the middle, partly obscured by a windblown Christmas tree. The snow here has become impacted. Villagers are crisscrossing in front of them, their figures briefly illuminated by street lamps. They hear a snatch of laughter and pop music as the pub door opens and closes; then they hear a carol start up inside a little church nearby.

“Harry, I think it’s Christmas Eve!” says Hermione, carefully having her volume under control.

“Is it?” He has lost track of the date during the long vagrancy, and he has not seen a newspaper for weeks.

“I’m sure it is,” says Hermione, her eyes upon the church. “They... they’ll be in there, won’t they? Your mum and dad? I can see the graveyard behind it.”

Fists clenched, Harry feels a thrill across his heart — of something that is beyond excitement, more like fear. He wonders what he is going to see, or whether he wants to see after all. He swallows, the locket against his chest absurdly heavy.

Hermione reaches for his hand and takes the lead, pulling him forward. Halfway across the square, however, she stops dead.

“Harry, look!”

She is pointing at the war memorial. As they have passed it, it has transformed. Instead of an obelisk covered in names, there is a statue of three people: a man with untidy hair and glasses, a woman with long hair and a kind, pretty face, and a baby boy sitting in his mother’s arms. Snow lies upon their heads and shoulders, white and serene.

Harry draws closer, gazing up into his parents’ faces. He has never imagined that there would be a statue... How strange it is to see himself represented in stone, a happy baby with thin hair while without the nasty scar — the baby looks nothing like him now... He discerns the other one in his head also studying it quietly.

“C’mon,” says Harry, when he has looked his fill, and they turn again toward the church. The singing grows louder as they approach it, reminding him so forcefully of Hogwarts, of the Christmas there, of the pumpkin pies and hot soup, of the happy red faces under snowflakes, of the Christmas trees decorated with stars and little angels...

There is a kissing gate at the entrance to the graveyard. Hermione pushes it open as quietly as possible and they edge through it soundlessly, stepping in the snow. They move along a row of tombstones protruded from a blanket of pale blue that is flecked with grey in the bright moonlight. It takes Hermione little time to spot a dark tombstone, upon which **KENDRA DUMBLEDORE** is engraved and, a short way below her dates of birth and death, **HER DAUGHTER ARIANA**. There was also a quotation:

**Where your treasure is, there will your heart be also.**

His heart misses a beat. So Rita Skeeter and Aunt Muriel got some of their facts right. The Dumbledore family had indeed lived here, and part of it had died here.

They both had deep roots here, in this ancient hollow, yet Dumbledore never mentioned it to him. He had never thought to share the connection, as if it had been unimportant coincidence. Harry blinks, his face dry, without a single threat of tears. He would rather not have seen this tombstone.

"Are you sure he never mentioned —" Hermione begins.

"No," he says curtly, "let's keep looking."

In the silent, silver graveyard, the two conflicting voices that filled his heart reaches a temporary balance tonight. Normally Voldemort would have showed up in his mind by now, making a few judgments, but this time he didn't. He could just be asleep, though Harry knows he's not.

Does he also have a tomb here? The weird thought flashes through Harry's mind. He died here, too, just as they did... How did people deal with his body? Would they build a tomb for him? Even if they did, it wouldn't be in this graveyard, that being too outrageous. Maybe they would transport him home if he had one. But did he? He had sealed his past and abandoned his background with no second thought. Nobody dares to speak that name, and none knows who he actually is...

"Will you mourn yourself before your own tomb?" soundlessly, he asks, as a snowflake falls on the tip of his nose. He leaves it there, waiting until it melts and drips.

"I have no intention of argument today, Potter," the reply comes after a couple of seconds. Harry inhales the cold air, when Hermione cries a few feet away, her voice slightly sharp, "Harry! Over here... right here..."

He moves towards her and forgos the random thinking. His heart drops, a rock-heavy sensation pressing on his chest. Breathing, even breathing hurts.

There are only two rows between this headstone and the one of Kendra and Ariana, and it's made of white marble, just like Dumbledore's tomb, thus making it easy to read, as it seems to shine in the dark. Harry does not need to kneel or even approach very close to it to make out the words engraved upon it.

 

**JAMES POTTER                 LILY POTTER**

   BORN 27 MARCH 1960     BORN 30 JANUARY 1960

   DIED 31 OCTOBER 1981    DIED 31 OCTOBER 1981

 

**The last enemy that shall be destroyed is death.**

 

Harry reads the words slowly, icy air somehow blazing in his tight throat. Reading the last sentence aloud, he frowns,"'The last enemy that shall be destroyed is death'... Isn’t that a Death Eater idea? Why is that there?" "It doesn’t mean defeating death in the way the Death Eaters mean it, Harry,” says Hermione, her voice gentle. "It means... you know... living beyond death. Living after death."

But all that is left here is the headstone, thinks Harry: They are gone. His parents’ mouldering remains lie beneath snow and stone, indifferent, not knowing that their son is left alone, stands so near and gazes at their tomb, longing to have a look of their faces, to say something, even one word... Everything is gone. He stares at the line, "31 OCTOBER 1981", a fateful night, the end of everything, also the new beginning.

Harry doesn't bother to wipe off the tears, instead letting them taint his cheeks and wet his scarf eventually. Looking down, he sees their deep footprints in front of the tombstone. Hermione raises her wand, moves it in a circle through the air, and a wreath of Christmas roses blossoms before them. Harry catches it and lays it on his parents’ grave.

Finally, he gets up and dries his tears, murmuring "let's go", not sure if he can stand another look.

It's late at night, and the snow becomes heavier, burdening their shoulders. Snow freezes at Harry's eyelashes, his lips discoloured in coldness despite the scarf covering his chin.

"Harry, stop," Hermione calls from beside him, one arm around his waist. "There, Harry! There’s someone watching us."

They stand quite still, and Harry looks towards where she is pointing at, but all that he can see is darkness.

"Are you sure —"

"I saw something move, I could have sworn I did..."

She breaks from him to free her wand arm.

“We look like Muggles,” Harry points out.

“Muggles who’ve just been laying flowers on your parents’ grave! Harry, I’m sure there’s someone over there!”

Harry goes mute, a strange intuition emerging, like a cold, misty shadow over his heart. He tries to stay rational.

"It's a cat, or a bird," he says,"If it was a Death Eater we’d be dead by now... But let’s put the Cloak back on, I think."

Departing from the dark graveyard, they continues their journey on the wet stone lane. The carol starts again, and the pub standing beside the street is still full of light. They quicken the pace through the street, glancing back repeatedly, past more windows sparkling with multicoloured lights, the outlines of Christmas trees dark through the curtains.

“How are we going to find Bathilda’s house?” Hermione is shivering a little. “Harry? What do you think? Harry?”

Harry is not paying attention. He is looking toward the dark mass that stands at the very end of this row of houses. Next moment he has sped up, dragging Hermione along with him; she slips a little on the ice.

"Harry —"

“Look... Look at it, Hermione...”

"I don't... oh!"

The cottage is not very tall. The hedge has grown wild in the sixteen years since Hagrid took Harry from the rubble that lies scattered amongst the waist-high grass. Most of the cottage is still standing, though entirely covered in dark ivy and snow, but the right side of the top floor has been blown apart; that, Harry is sure, is where the curse backfired.

It was indeed a miracle that he lived, he thinks.

"So there might be some truth in the rumours," he speaks in the mind, without any idea why the words suddenly occur to him. "The 'found your burnt corpse' part."

To his surprise, Voldemort doesn't say anything, and Harry can't even sense his anger.

He slips a hand from beneath the Invisibility Cloak and grasps the iron gate, rust all over his palm. He gazes at the gate, not wishing to open it, but simply to hold some part of the house.

"You’re not going to go inside? It looks unsafe, it might — oh, Harry, look!"

His touch on the gate seems to have done it. A sign has risen up through the tangles of nettles and weeds, and in golden letters upon the wood it says:

 

On this spot, on the night of 31 October 1981,

Lily and James Potter lost their lives.

Their son, Harry, remains the only wizard

ever to have survived the Killing Curse.

This house, invisible to Muggles, has been left

in its ruined state as a monument to the Potters

 

And all around these neatly lettered words, scribbles have been added by other witches and wizards who came to see the place where the Boy Who Lived had escaped. Some merely signed their names in Everlasting Ink; others carved their initials into the wood; still others have left messages, shining brightly in the darkness.

 

_Good luck, Harry, wherever you are._

_If you read this, Harry, we're all behind you!_

_Long live Harry Potter._

 

"They shouldn’t have written on the sign!" says Hermione, indignant.

But Harry beams at her. “It’s brilliant. I’m glad they did."

 

Indifferently, he observes the boy and the girl talking; maybe they should be called man and woman currently — since they've used Polyjuice Potion after all. Within these days, he has absorbed enough energy from the boy to act independently on certain things. It has been a slow process, especially when he has yet to acquire Harry's trust. For a short period of time, he managed to lead the boy to depend on him relatively, though it didn't last. He never intended to rely solely on this, knowing well that the common tricks he used on ordinary wizards are unlikely to truly affect Harry Potter — he hasn't made any attempts, but there is an instinct telling him so.

However, today he stands a good chance... The boy may lay down his guards after mourning his parents, and he can sense a familiar power coming near, coming with a perfect opportunity...

He didn't give the boy any warning that three Horcruxes have gathered together here... If all of them were still in deep slumber, nothing could go wrong, but he is already awake, the initiative transferred to him now.

He watches the boy following the old woman into that dark, stinky house, her body also stinks like dead bodies... That stupid, naïve boy is totally unaware, not even of the parseltongue she speaks.

Why would parseltongue, one of the talents that he takes most pride in, also be gifted to the boy? He feels uncomfortable pondering this, so he lets it go for the moment. The view shifts, though what he can see is always the same darkness that stinks. Raising his wand, the boy turns and slips between the old woman and her untidied bed, staring attentively at her face, which is covered with wrinkles and livor mortis. A right move, but it won't change anything.

"What is that?" asks the boy.

"There," says the other Horcrux, pointing at a messy pile of clothes.

Weird suspicion crosses his mind. Perhaps this fragment has also gained consciousness, otherwise the intellect displayed by Nagini goes far beyond his expectation. But he is uncertain of it, of almost everything, in fact... It's been sixteen years, hasn't it? He finds it hard to follow up, only left with the pitiful clips that he seized from Harry's memory, most of which are simply useless.

The boy looks away, searching the pile of stuff. He interprets his shallow mind with ease — still wishing to find a _sword_... He waits patiently for the other self to strike.

The view shakes, and he can see the old woman move in a strange way in the peripheral vision. A sign. The boy turns around in horror, paralysed as he sees the old body collapsing and the great snake pouring from the place where her neck had been, showing its fangs.

 

It's happening. His evil laugh echoes in the boy's dizzy mind; the snake strikes and bites in his forearm. Thanks to the thick clothes in between, it's not too severe, at least not lethal within some time, but the force to his forearm sends the wand spinning up toward the broken light in the ceiling. The lamp swings and is extinguished in the next second, with the grating sounds of tubes crushing to the ground.

" _Hold him!_ "

This is the voice from his most powerful self, or the most complete... But soon he will no longer be... very soon...

Stumbling, he falls into the mould of filthy clothes on the dressing table, when the tail of the snake hits his abdomen. Now he also feels the pain, a rather sharp sensation... It reminds him of _the day_ , so vivid as if it were just yesterday. He pointed the wand to the forehead of the boy looking at him curiously, and demanded death — then he was ripped apart. He became _nothing_ , nothing but fatal agony and fear, casting him into the most vulnerable state.

In the few seconds of his thought wandering, the snake has coiled itself around Harry and pins him onto the ground. The roughness pressing on his cheekbones, the serphent has nearly squeezed all the air out of his lungs, and the locket against the chest stings like a sharp icicle a few inches away from his heart... The boy's struggle becomes less and less efficient, white light booming in his vision, but he doesn't feel the same coldness as in the night of his downfall... The girl downstairs is screaming, and he knows this is it —

Unrestrained, he takes the place of the other unconscious soul, blood rushing to his head as he discerns the triumph of the master soul, who is flying in the cold sky over England, without need of broomstick or thestral...

You'll rejoice for another dozen of seconds, he jeers silently. With a few movements of his fingers, the suffocating sensation disappears, while the physical discomfort remains. He coughs and leans to the wall, trying to bring this young body up to its feet. The sight is somewhat vague.

Something's wrong. It seems the glasses have been knocked off. Frowning, he bends down to look for them. He had great eyesight originally, which was fortified later by his extraordinary magic. On the other hand, this boy said to have power to defeat him wears a silly pair of spectacles.

He spots the glasses in the corner of the room and puts them back on after wiping off the dust. Nagini slithers through the pieces of porcelain and filthy clothes. It seems to have noticed something, staring at him in confusion and decides not to attack immediately, which is quite relieving, because now he knows the fragment dwelling in the serpent must be dormant, otherwise it would attempt to kill him, the potential competitor, with no hesitation, just like what he plans to do next. The sight back to clarity, he passes Nagini in search of the wand that the boy lost. The image of dark sky reappears in his head, that man getting closer... then he sees the tip of the wand...

"Harry, Harry!" Hearing the stumbling and panicked yelling, he turns towards the staircase where runs up that foolish girl. Carelessly allowing a Horcrux to take Harry upstairs — how did they survive till now?

Arriving at the entrance of the room, she barely opens her mouth before he lifts a finger, shooting a red light to her forehead. She staggers and falls down to the floor at last. Sparing no more concern for her, he walks across the glass shards towards Harry's wand, and stiffens.

The wand must have knocked into something during spinning, now severed in two, one fragile strand of phoenix feather hanging between both pieces like a terrible joke. He pauses, tucks it in the pocket as he aims his finger at the giant snake slithering along the wall. A second stunning spell hit it, and the serpent's long form falls hard to the floor. With a wave of finger, it floats up and automatically follows him out. Pain suddenly bursts in the scar. _He's here_... The connection between a piece of the soul and the master of it is more intimate than he speculated, and he feels his control over it weaken. Grabbing the slippery snake, he disapparated into the darkness, leaving his other self roaring in rage.

 

" _Where... where are you, Nagini? Answer me!_ "

He opens his eyes and climbs up from the ground, shaking off the grass and leaves. He cleans up the dirt on his jacket with some simple magic. As far as he knows, Harry hasn't taken a shower for a long time. The brat just used spells to cover the smell when he could bear no more.

" _Nagini_..."

The scar stings intermittently, his cold fingers pressing against it. That icy, angry voice is still echoing, trying desperately to awake his pet. Sneering, he glances at the stunned serpent and shifts his attention. He's apparated in the woods where Harry and Hermione stayed before. He heads for the river. There isn't much time left for him, but one minute or two can be saved for the first thing he has to do — he wants to look at this face.

He only met Harry once when he was an one-year-old infant, who didn't look any different from any other... The only thing that left him an impression was that pair of bright green eyes, looking straight to him, as if mistaking him for James... But he quickly realised he was not his father and started crying.

Naturally, he doesn't often see the boy himself in Harry's own memories. He lived, and he survives into adulthood, so he can't be recognised. Nonetheless, out of a desire that he fails to explain to himself, he thinks that he should look at this face before the ritual he planned.

It's dim at night, the river showing a dark colour with a trace of silver. He sits at the bank as an orange glow, slightly dazzling, rises up from his palm and lights up his cheeks.

The Polyjuice Potion has worn off, revealing the original face reflected in the water, slightly dirty probably because of the fight in that dark room in Bagshot's house. Harry is reasonably good-looking, his jet black hair dishevelled, skin radiating gently under the warm light, and those emerald eyes as bright as he remembered, only _colder_ now, which is certainly affected by him. In fact, the reflection looks nothing like Harry at the moment — eyes apathetic, lips pursed, as if he was some God of Death anticipating a battle. The simile satisfies him. He stands up and returns to where Nagini lies. After rennervating it, he hisses in parseltongue, "Bring Lord Voldemort to the nearest Death Eater."

 

TBC.

 


	4. Chapter 4

Harry had a very long dream.

He was sent back to his second year, in the Chamber of Secrets, with the handsome boy who came out of the diary and his basilisk. They were attacking him in that murky, rotten hell, trying to end him along with their conspiracy of fifty years' time... His sight was blocked with the giant, shaking head of the serpent and the colourful patterns on its body, rotating before him in a manner as stones at the river bottom whirl with water flow... Someone was laughing in his head, giving his whole brain a maddening concussion. Then the  _wrath_. The man roared, and so did Harry himself. The man was in anguish, and so was Harry. He fell twice in the same place; it must be a curse... The view switched. He was flying in the dark, through starlight and cold winds. He landed somewhere pitch-black... a graveyard, where he was faced with grey tombstones. They were different from his parents' tomb, looking more decayed. He vaguely realised he had gone back to the fourth year, in the nightmare of Lord Voldemort's resurrection, where stood the same cauldron and the same puny servant... **_What? No, this is wrong_...**

_"What are you doing, Potter? — Let go of me!"_

_"Legilimens!"_

The fury and fear in those eyes blur as he cries out in his heart, **_No, don't — let him go —_**

"You will stay there and inform me of anything approaching... Right, I haven't met you before. Are you a new follower?" He hears himself speaking in a sharp and chilly voice when he lifts the Death Eater's pale, pointy chin, "What's your name?"

"...Draco Malfoy," in a daze replies the boy. The name knocks some clarity into Harry's mind, so he starts the futile crying again; he appears to be the only one to hear it... **_Where is he? Why, why_...**

"Malfoy?...You are son of Lucius Malfoy?"

"Yes, my lord."

The obscure sight shakes while the view turns downwards and involves a snake. Not the basilisk... It's Voldemort's snake. He seizes it with his fracturing hands, followed by a dumb pain in his brain as if hit by a hammer, the clash shocking him into blindness. **_No, no._..**

"Come here, Draco, help me hold it... Be quick!"

**_No, no..._ **

His yelling almost tore his throat apart, but no one heard him... He might be neglected, the thought rendering him distress... He sees himself point at the snake, and red glow wraps its entire long form in the weirdest way, as Draco's arm also appears in burning red, seeming to have congestion. He screams.

"Shut up, boy!"

Harry is getting colder and colder; it seems that heat has been continually running off since he returned to consciousness, only at a faster speed now... He has an illusionn of a knife cutting his chest open, the scar twitching, his breath enveloped in cold mist while his mouth dry. He is in a trance, dying, yet his body stands upright to the ground...

"Cut off your arm, throw it into the cauldron, _now_!"

 ** _No, no, stop it_**... It's so cold, too cold for him to speak. He sees the cut in his own arm, blood dripping into the boiling cauldron while the vaporous clouds of its smell rise... his vision darkens with the dusked surroundings...

**_Please, anyone, come and stop all this_...**

Darkness eventually prevails over Harry's consciousness.

 

_Cold... so cold..._

He never knew the ritual could have such side effect. Wrong, he has been feeling increasingly cold long before it.

Before taking control of this body, he was too indulged in the warmth, comfort and vitality of the boy. As repulsive as he used to regard the sensation, he has got accustomed to it, and once he realises the potential loss of it, fear and fury take over him.

This is impossible. How could the mere change of the soul within freeze the exact same vessel? He knows that he has never had a warm body, but he always ascribes it to innate physiological feature, which might turn out in relation to the soul now... But he has no time for this, as the battle with the piece of soul for sacrifice has been prolonged by its tenacious struggle, though it is reduced to a shapeless shadow and no longer poses a serious threat with half of its strength already plundered.

"You will regret this... You will pay the price..." shouts the broken fragment harshly, coming at him with red glaring eyes. Draco holds the stump of his arm tight while sobbing pathetically, his face pale due to the massive loss of blood, seemingly about to fall the next second.

"Kill me, and you'll suffer!"

Its curse rings like an omen, hammering itself into his brain. For a moment, he is in a haze, as though he has lost something. Then he lifts himself up and turns to the two boys, neither of whom able to stand; he narrows his eyes.

"Go and examine him, Draco."

"My, my lord..."

"You heard me."

The boy wipes off the tears with the only hand left and stumbles towards where Harry lies. He kneels down between sobs as he pushes away Harry's sweat-wet fringe, blood drops from the stump forming black taints on his neck.

He leans in and studies Harry for a moment, whose face appears blue, lips white, jaw quivering slightly. Draco turns around and whispers, "My lord, he looks... he looks terrible — it seems..."

"Seems _what_?"

"Seems that he's poisoned..." The man strides to him before the sentence is finished, and he instantly draws back, holding his breath.

Voldemort rids Harry of his thick jacket and rips his T-shirt inside open. There are two small holes in his right arm, streaming black blood — Nagini's bite.

"Give me your wand." He stretches the pale, long fingers. Draco dares not refuse him, and hands him the wand shuddering. He takes the wand and waves it, but nothing happens. His magic stops responding.

_What is wrong?_

He makes another attempt. When it has proved useless, he puts the wand aside and rips long strips of cloth from Harry's T-shirt, winding them tight around the wound.

"Get some cold water!" He throws the wand back to Draco. "There is a pub nearby. Go!"

"My lord, I —" Draco turns paler as he points at the absence of one limb, "I can't move..."

Scarlet eyes fixed on him for a while, the boy retreats in fright, his legs shaking. Voldemort snatches the wand from him and sets off.

 

He has been trying all the way to recover the connection with his magic, but every attempt has disappointed him, his heart sinking at the thought that he currently holds no more power than a despicable Muggle. Each of the things he could have done effortlessly has become the most difficult task. _Damn it!_ Is this what the scraficed fragment meant? He cut off his connection with magic, leaving him in a more vulnerable state than death.

Voldemort marches into the dirty pub, which he passed by when he came here at the age of sixteen and hasn't quite changed since then. On the glass wall hang a couple of outdated posters and advertisements; some men and women are dancing to the rhythm of metal while the owner is talking to a woman behind the bar. He has gained attention from everyone the moment he enters, several Muggles falling from their chairs the instant they see his face, daring not let out a single sound.

"Prepare me a bottle of cold water and some gauze." He goes straight to the owner and seizes the woman in front of him by her nape, his long fingers choking her out of speech, her eyes rolling back. "I give you three minutes, from _now_!"

The owner is a middle-aged man with messy hair, whose chin is yet shaved clean. Taking a step back, he bumps into the wine rack, causing a Remy Martin to fall off and smash on the ground, wetting his trousers. Without a word for response, he flees to the inner room.

Silence has taken over the room and nearly everyone in it, the occasional attempts to speak all dying down when met with Voldemort's glances, their initiators turning pale immediately, too scared to look straight in his face.

After several minutes, with a series of noises of things knocked down staggers out the owner, throwing a water-filled beer bottle and a roll of gauze to him. He catches them firmly in hand, turns around in the gaze of a room of people and leaves the pub.

 _It's not working... still not... Damn it! How could he let himself be influenced by the defeated? He must figure this out, he_ _must_...

When he returns to the woods, Harry is still lying there with Draco curling by his side, seemingly talking to him. Narrowing his eyes, he has a bad feeling about this. Is he already awake? Here is the puzzle that he fails to solve — why would he save him? He's of no use now...

The two boys are aware of his presence before he approaches, both turning to his direction. Harry struggles to sit up and grips the hem of Voldemort's robe, "Quick, save Malfoy —"

"Lie down."

"Volde —"

"Potter!"

Perhaps startled by his angered look, Harry shuts his mouth. He lays him back to the grass, pulls the cork of the bottle out and starts to clean his wound. Though the wound is not very deep, it's left untended for quite some time, and a light hematoma has appeared around it. Harry grits his teeth while Voldemort washes the wound, whose moves are far from gentle, long nails sporadically leaving painful and itchy scratches on his skin. Eyes widened, his stare wanders from that flat face, which is particularly indifferent in the darkness of night, to his almost lipless mouth, then to the bottle and the gauze in his hand... It all looks so weird that he finds it hard to possess, even ignoring his movements.

With effort, he turns his head to Draco, to whom he, in fact, barely talked moments ago. He had yet to clarify the situation then, and only managed to say hi to a weeping, bewildered Draco before Voldemort came back.

"What are you looking at?" says the man coldly, who roughly coils gauze around the wound, inflicting pained gasps from Harry. He glares at the man, only to be shocked by his next move.

Voldemort bends down, his mouth now at the wound. Acute pain has considerably increased his sensitivity to touch, sending him a shiver however light a move is. Harry stares at him in amazement while he sucks the venom from his wound, lips and tongue and teeth around that small part of skin like pins and needles. He shudders at the prickling sensation and clenche fist subconsciously.

"Relax, Potter."

"Are — are there any wounds in your mouth?" Harry has no idea why he bothered to ask, hoping he wasn't heard. Against his will, the man raises his brows as he tilts his head to spit out the venom, after which he says coolly, "Do you want to have a check?"

"No," Harry shuts his mouth instantly, terribly aware of the current pain burning in his wound. "Err, I just didn't know you could handle this," he comments on the treatment.

"Nor did I expect _you_ to know," he mocks. Actually he himself wasn't sure he could still remember. Recalling the treatment almost annoyed him, since he should have been able to cure it within a second if only he had not lost his magic, what a mistake to make... Nevertheless, now he has to rely on the Muggle method that he despises most, though it only caters to urgent needs.

A chilly breeze sweeps through Harry's open clothes, half of his body numb from cold. He turns to Draco once more, finding that he, eyes closed, seems to have fainted.

"Wait! Aren't you going to do something?" asking loudly, he flips away the other one's hand, "he sacrificed an arm for you, Tom Riddle!"

" _What did you call me?_ "

Harry ignores him and leans to his side, dragging Draco's icy body towards him with caution. Blood tainted Draco's robe has left black mucus on his hand.

"Can't you forge an arm for him?" On the recollection of Peter Pettigrew's silver hand, he looks up to the coldness in Voldemort's eyes, "He will die if you leave him like this!"

His expression remains nonchalant when he stands up, gazing down at Harry, who has Draco's head limply dropping to his chest. Harry tries to carry him up, but the weight exceeds his expectation.

"Help me!" he gives the man an anxious look as he struggles to his feet with both his hands lifting Draco up by the armpits. Voldemort finally moves, bending down slowly to take over the job of supporting Draco. Harry pulls his clothes tight and zips the jacket up in a rush, reaching to the pocket for his wand when a strange one is shoved in his hand.

He looks up to Voldemort; then his eyes fall back on the wand in hand.

"Errm, this is not my wand."

"I know." It looks like Voldemort's patience is wearing thin. He turns away from Harry, who would continue to argue but for seeing Draco's pale face. "Fine, if you won't give him a new arm, let's go to St. Mungo's."

"Polyjuice Potion."

"Oh, right." From his pocket, Harry takes out a small bottle given by Hermione and twists off its cap, "So you agree to go?"

Voldemort only snorts. Harry takes a sip of the cement-like liquid inside, forcing it down his throat before he stores the bottle back in. The tidied clothes falls open again as he transforms into the middle-aged muggle; he steps towards Voldemort and takes his hand. The larger palm against his is extremely cold, even icier than this dark winter night.

Harry swallows and forgoes the random thoughts. They begin spinning in the compacted space.

 

His hand is very warm.

Superficially, he can only see a Muggle's hand, but what he senses is the familiar heat, warming him the way it did over thousands of days and nights, tangible, destructive.

He knows all too well: without that Dementor the other day, he would never have awaken, but drowned in the gentle waves of warmth. Death created him in the first place, and its second approaching roused him. The once oblivious infant has grown into a young man, while he has dreamt for sixteen years, left behind by the world.

Voldemort stands in the empty corridor outside the ward, watching indifferently through the glass.

The corridor was full of people before, the healers walking along it in dark green robes, some patients' family and friends wandering about with food boxes and kettles, but the moment he and Harry appeared, everyone fled. Family and friends of patients hide in the wards as the healers run away as though it was for their lives. Draco's healer is the only one left there, who is clinging to his notebook and trembling in the corner.

"Heal him." Aware of his reluctance to speak more, Harry shoots him a glance from beside and steps forward to stabilise the healer's emotions with words of comfort.

The healer uses several spells to stanch the bleeding. After further observation of Draco's arm, he tells Harry, "He — will need to stay here for three days before he gets a whole new arm."

"Will there be any sequela?" asks Harry.

"No. He was brought here just in time..." utters the healer, finally freed from stuttering. With a glance at Draco, he tactfully expresses his wish to treat him alone. Harry tugs Voldemort's sleeve as a hint of leaving.

"We'll have to stay here for three days."

"' _We_ '?"

Taken aback, Harry looses his grip and recoils, on the edge of rage.

"You're the reason of his injury, and this is how you pay him back?" he growls, "If this is how you treat your followers, no wonder none of them went for you!"

"He's not 'my' follower."

"He _helped_ you, you psycho!"

"No Death Eater is worth a three-day stay of Lord Voldemort," he says lowly in sharp contrast with Harry's irritated voice. "Enough of this."

Harry inhales deeply and shakes his head, repressing his anger. He should have known better.

"Alright, I thought —"

"What did you think?"

"Don't interrupt me. I thought you had finally awaken your conscience — which you had not at all. So why did you get the venom out for me?" Still considering that very scene surreal, Harry turns to glare at him. It was almost like a dream, where Voldemort saved his mortal enemy — something must have gone wrong.

They have stared at each other for a while before Voldemort suddenly grabs him by the arm and pulls him forward. Startled and annoyed, yet not daring to shout, Harry can't do anything but curse under his breath while trying to break the man's grasp, but Voldemort's got much more strength than he expected, his hold firm as iron. He directly pushes him to the trembling receptionist and says, "Lord Voldemort needs to see the Attending Healer specialised in treating snake toxin." The receptionist slips and runs out with no delay, one hand on the mouth to muffle any screams.

"Are you _insane_?" snarls Harry. Voldemort is no longer grasping him, so he takes a quick turn, the pain in his arm consequently stinging.

Glancing at him, Voldemort starts when Harry is about to quit waiting for a reply, "Your brain is quite frustrating."

It takes Harry several seconds to realise what he was referring to. Dryly, he says, "I'm glad you are not interested in my memories any more."

"I have never been."

"Well then, how did you escape from my brain?" he articulates every word of the question clearly.

"Some practical magical trick that requires offering."

"Dark magic, you mean?"

"It was extremely risky to use living things as Horcruxes... so I decided to sacrifice Nagini."

"...What?" It's becoming hard to follow, Voldemort's nonchalant gaze seeming to mean that he is not planning to explain. "So you're saying you sacrificed Nagini as an offering?"

"More accurately, the offering was the fragment of soul within her."

"It's dead?"

"Apparently."

"But —"

"But there was an error when I exited... I left a part of me in you." His stare intensifies and Harry's throat tightens at the feeling of a rock rolling all the way down to the bottom of his heart.

"‘Left... a part... in me’?" The words are drawn out so slowly as if they were never known to him.

"My _magic_ , Potter... Before I retrieve it, I'll keep a close eye on you..."

"Wait, stop! You said you left your magic in me, but I don't sense such thing! I still know nothing about dark magic, and I don't know how to fly without a broomstick, either. This doesn't make any sense," Harry points out hastily.

"It doesn't make any difference. Do you think you can master Lord Voldemort's power so easily?" He approaches, and Harry feels the strong tension in the air on the instant. He gapes, deprived of arguments, when the receptionist runs towards them with a middle-aged healer, who has a miserable look on his face.

"So－sorry for keeping you waiting! I can't find any other..."

After exchanging looks with Voldemort, Harry clears his throat and forces a smile to the receptionist and the healer, saying, "No problem. Thank you for coming."

Somehow, he thinks they are even shaking more violently now.

Harry spends little time getting the bite treated, and he doesn't even feel any pain. The only thing is that the healer keeps looking at him with pity as if he was is going to die of this.

"You... you're fine now, sir," stutters the healer, his head low in fear of making eye contact with Voldemort.

Harry withdraws his arm and thanks him, but the healer retreats, frightened, and waves his hands.

"It's nothing... That's what we are supposed to do..."

Defeated, Harry cease talking in case he would cause him further trauma, and leaves the ward alongside Voldemort.

It's exceedingly quiet in the corridor, the anxiety hidden in his heart exposed to the dim and flickering lights when Harry tries to go through his thoughts. He is not completely clear about what exactly happened. He knows he and Hermione went to Bathilda Bagshot's house, but Bagshot turned out to be a serpent...

"You are not afraid of me," Voldemort speaks suddenly. Harry turns to him at the statement.

"So?"

The man stays silent as he gazes around the corridor.

Harry contemplates his words, "You want me to be afraid of you, just like those healers?"

"That's not what I said."

"Whatever, I'm not going to guess what you mean," Harry shrugs. "Anyway, you should know that if I was just as frightened as they were, not able to even speak before you, I wouldn't have made it so far."

Voldemort glances at him without any comment. Frustrated, Harry rubs his nose and it occurs to him all of a sudden, "Hold on, where's Hermione?"

Voldemort's pace breaks; a second later he silently strides ahead. The realisation hits Harry and he stops dead.

" _You left her there, didn't you_?" His voice is shaking while his head aches as if there was water boiling in it, apart from which he doesn't feel anything. He draws out the wand, but a hand presses it down before he could disapparate. The man looks at Harry deadpan as he snatches the wand from him, his long fingers, thin as spider legs, curled tight around it.

"Give it back!"

"Where are you going?"

"None of your business!" roars Harry, "If anything happens to her, I'll make you pay!"

"Oh, what are you about to do?" Harry can't believe he smirks at this point, though it is immediately replaced by a grave expression. "You're going straight to him and save your friend, right? I guess he will let her go if you kneel before him and beg for mercy, don't you think?"

Harry glares furiously and bites his lower lip. It seems his fist is going to appear right in Voldemort's face the next second. A moment past, he utters rigidly, "This is all your fault. Who else is to blame?"

"You can't be expecting me to help you, Potter." The sarcasm in his tone has almost driven Harry crazy. Clenching his fist, he eventually stretches out his hand.

"Give me _my_ wand back."

The man shoots a strange look at him.

"Now —"

Voldemort lazily reaches into the pocket of his dark robe and, after some rustling, hands him a severed wand, the corner of his mouth curving up once again.

Harry stiffs, his eyes fixed on the wand first, then back on Voldemort. His throat tightens at the rising rage. The wand lies quietly in the man's palm, Harry's old companion for six years, once flexible, loyal and taking every oder from him perfectly, now two wooden pieces linked by nothing but a strand of feather. His lips are trembling, and the other person has to provoke him at this moment.

"Since you snapped it yourself, Potter, you won't mind taking this to fight him, will you?"

Gloom spreading across his face, Harry slowly takes up the wand from Voldemort's hand and gazes at it for a moment; then he puts it into the pocket. Without any warning sign, he punches the man in the chest.

 

The chamber provided for them is on the top floor of the hospital, extravagantly cozy. The bed is covered with heavy mattress and dark green quilts, a landscape painting hung on the wall, and beside the wall is a nightstand with two exquisite porcelain cups on it.

However, after the receptionist who led them here has fled, Voldemort merely takes a look inside and closes the door behind him.

"The Invisibility Cloak."

"What now?" Harry snaps, but pulls out the shiny, smooth silk anyway. Voldemort takes it to cover them both.

Though still mad at Voldemort, he tilts his head up to give him a questioning look. The man grasps Harry's shoulders in his hands and tightens the grip when Harry starts struggling. "Don't move."

"So we're not staying here? Why?" he lowers his voice.

"Staying here equals giving out your track to everyone out there. It's hard to believe how stupid you are," he says coldly. Beyond words, Harry angrily hits backwards with his elbow, only to be seized instantly.

"If you do it again, Potter..."

"Oh, what if I _do_? You've figured out some non-magic ways to torture me?" he scoffs.

"There are many, Potter. Don't challenge me."

They descends to the ground floor through the emergency access to avoid people on the staircase, leaving the abandoned mall in Muggles' eyes and stepping onto the dark streets. Looking around, Harry is about to speak when Voldemort looks down at him and takes out the functioning wand and slips it into his hand, "Apparate us where your campsite was."

"Huh?"

"Or you prefer sleeping on the street?"

"But we don't have a tent — Alright, don't give me that look. I'm not very good at Transfiguration, so unless you trust me enough —"

"Shut it, Potter."

Harry shoots a glare at him as he grabs his arm, apparating them in a tranquil valley.

He loosens the grip the moment they land, standing still grumpily. This is where he camped with Ron and Hermione and thinking of this inflicts a dull pain in his chest; even catching his breath has become difficult. He has no idea why he's staying here with him instead of trying to kill him. Isn't this the best opportunity? He's lost all the magic, nothing more than a Muggle currently... If he doesn't terminate him now, he'll be facing two Voldemort's. The memory of the pale, flat face emerges, and so do those of the touch of his silk robe, of the maddening light sucks... _For hell's sake, what has got into his head?_

Shaking his head, Harry banishes the inappropriate thoughts. Voldemort has pulled off the Invisibility Cloak, his hand laying on Harry's shoulder casually. It seems he has already checked their surroundings before he asks coolly, "This is the place you picked?"

"You've got a problem?" Harry comes to himself and shoves the cloak into his pocket. "I suppose no one will find us if protective enchantments are set up, but I'm afraid we'll have to sleep in the grass. Well, I'm sure the bed in the hospital would be way more comfortable —"

"That's the plan then," the man interrupts him unexpectedly. Rubbing his nose, Harry takes his time with the charms. _You should kill him rather than prepare him and you somewhere to sleep... If you do not kill him now, he may kill you at night._ A voice is trying to persuade him, and Harry can't help finding it reasonable. Merlin knows what the man has in mind, and he will probably kill Harry the next moment. Just like Dumbledore, he will see his demise in his own credulity.

But if he wanted him dead, he wouldn't have saved him. As he said, his magic is left in Harry's body, so he won't let him die here... _But I still have to kill him,_ thinks Harry miserably. He is supposed to destroy the Horcruxes from the beginning, and it changes nothing that some of them have become a man.

Harry finds a meadow shaded by trees. Walking around, he casts every charm they used for protection and cleans the snow, laying his jacket on the ground. The howling snowy brisk sends shivers down his spine, and it suddenly strikes him that it might not be a wise decision to camp without a tent at a winter night.

He might die here, at least frozen... He'll die with nothing accomplished, not even a farewell. With these thoughts Harry sits on the jacket, sniffing at the discovery that he has already got a running nose due to coldness.

It's not until this moment that Voldemort, who just stared at his movements with nonchalance, frowns and bends down to tug the jacket.

"Put it on," he demands.

"Oh... but then it would be uncomfortable lying here." The grass stings a little, which is not a pleasant feeling to sleep on, and can't be made go away even if they have the jacket beneath their bodies.

"Deal with it." There is finality in his tone, so Harry reluctantly lifts the jacket and puts it on. Voldemort sits beside him, seeming completely unaffected. Observing the thin robe on him, Harry reckons that he should feel much colder than himself; thus he casts several more Impervius Charms despite worrying how close he has come to madness.

For a while, they simply sit on the grass, neither wanting to be the first to lie down. Harry's eyelids are heavy, his head dizzy from things that happened altogether today, yet he tries hard not to collapse. Yawning, he feels like saying something.

"Don't you feel cold?"

The man spares him a glimpse.

"It seems you're already shuddering."

"I'm not," Harry insists. He doesn't understand why Voldemort, though dressed far less than he is, seems totally immune to the low temperature in the valley at night. "Why aren't you cold?"

Voldemort didn't reply. Only those who are warm themselves will feel cold in winter, while he, on the contrary, reacts negatively to things of heat, for example, that hand beside him.

Without response from him, Harry quits asking and lies down, his jacket held tight. Exhausted, he falls deeply asleep the instant he closes eyes, his breaths steadied in slumber within little time. Voldemort studies him for a moment before he presses his finger at the lightning bolt scar in his forehead, narrowing his eyes.

This is the proof of his separation. An unintentional Horcrux... According to the books, Horcrux is the most nefarious invention over a century, and he selected the treasures that carry most value as the vessels of his soul to signify the nobility of his immortality.

But things turned to an unwanted path. The books never told him what would happen if a Horcrux gained consciousness. He was as confident in the loyalty of Horcruxes as he was in those Death Eaters. This might not be where his strength lies... but he still outpowers Harry Potter.

His icy fingers trail down and slither into the boy's open collar, seizing his throat with ease, his index finger pressed against the pumping aorta, caressing softly. Disturbed, Harry turns his head to one side, offering the scarlet eyes a view to lock on. _How simple, he could kill him even without magic... So credulous to lie peacefully in front of him, and such breakable breaths..._ Does he trust all his friends in this way, so with every person at his side? The recollection has visited him, of those dialogues in the forest and that anxious look of his when he pleaded for Draco's life... Shouldn't Harry despise that boy?

His fingers tighten, only to loose again. Looking up to the sky, he sees the cloud shading the moonlight.

 

Harry didn't enjoy a sound sleep. He had coursed through one dream after another, having everyone present. He dreamt about Ron and Hermione, waving to him on the red train... And Ginny, a flock of bats flying around her, keeping him away... At last, it was the man of his nightmares. He took hold of his throat and the pressure increased with time, so he struggled as his face turned purple, almost dying in the dream. Then it was still him, that pair of blood red eyes nearer and nearer, his lips gently touched his... not wound, but somewhere more outrageous...

Harry's eyes snap open, his back already covered with cold sweat. The dark sky above him makes he realise that he hasn't slept for too long. Leaning to his side, he discovers a figure sitting at a distance, too far away to discern his expression.

Pushing the sweat-soaked jacket aside, Harry gets up and slowly walks towards the man. At the touch on his arm, the man withdraws at once.

"Can't sleep?" he asks between yawning.

Voldemort disregards the question.

"I've thought about it. I'm going to the hospital tomorrow," says Harry, prepared to be interrogated or objected, but he only receives a glance.

"Why did you save Draco?" The question comes from nowhere.

"So? — What's wrong?" Harry gets alert at the subconscious supposition of some new scheme of Voldemort, which must have revealed, as the suspect is clearly annoyed by it.

"You hate him," he points out.

Harry rubs his nose and shrugs, his eyes full of frankness, "So I do. But you could't watch someone _die_ simply for it, could you?

"You do not worry that he might return your kindness with malice?"

"Err... I haven't thought about that yet."

Sensing the emergence of mockery from Voldemort, Harry seethes, "I don't expect you to understand. I know you only care about yourself."

"You are saving your enemy, Potter. Shouldn't you have killed him?" he purrs.

"Wrong. You are the only one I have to kill from the beginning," he says coldly, returning to where he was lying, his knees pulled against chest while holding the jacket.

"Then why don't you get on with it right away?"

"Right, I also want to ask myself that question." Staring up at the swaying branches, Harry's eyes feel a little sore.

Several minutes have passed in silence before Voldemort starts again, "What do you go to the hospital for?"。

"Just some business," Unwillingly, Harry responds in an ambiguous way as he lies down on the grass.

"You're worrying about Draco?"

"No." The denial comes as an instinct, only to be changed after a few seconds, "...Maybe I am."

"I won't let you talk to him alone, Potter..."

"I'm not plotting anything! _You_ caused my friend hazard. Can't _I_ at least go to save her from it?" he suddenly explodes, his voice raised and his head turned away, "You think everyone just fancies contemptible ideas and is obsessed with killing as much as you do?"

"Shut up, Potter!"

"Then don't try to stop me or manipulate me!"

Harry glares at the horrible face of Voldemort’s; he should have felt terrified, his fear multiplied by so many moments of despair. However, now he is delusional again, though he shouldn't be, to be sitting here, arguing with his nemesis as if it was an ordinary fight — on condition neither of them can use magic, otherwise two can't live at the same time.

"You mean, you want Draco to help you save your friend?" Harry's shoulders tense at the icy voice. He really wish he could ignore him, but how could Voldemort ever allow that.

"I need a favour from him, nothing dangerous," he murmurs, turning his head away once more, "and you are gonna disagree with that?"

Hearing the rustling sounds beside him, Harry rolls over in vigilance and is surprised by how close the other man is seated to him, which makes him recoil immediately. Voldemort seizes him by the arm, and Harry shudders at the iciness of his palm.

"Your hand's too cold." After a failed attempt to push him back and the absence of reply, he wraps most of the palm in his own hand, such an act reminding him of the fable of the farmer and the snake due to the equal ridicule.

The man suddenly yanks his hand away, only to run it up beneath Harry's clothes, the coldness wandering on his heated back. Harry gasps and squirms reflexively, trying to throw the hand off. Goosebumps have swept across half of his body as the wide hand slides down along his backbone and reaches one side of his waist, pressing a little. He can't help but curses, " _What the fuck are you doing_?"

"Very interesting," he says lazily as he scrutinises the boy's flustered expression, a trace of amusement flickering in his eyes, "Let me guess, you were trying to warm my hand."

"Not anymore," Harry grits his teeth. Merlin knows where the absurd idea came from. "Let go, I'm going to sleep!" The almost abnormally large hand seems to be in an endeavour to find the warmest place, nails digging lightly into his sensitive skin. He tries to turn over and end this torture, but the man's faster, pinning him down with the other hand on the thigh. Harry stiffs.

"Why so nervous, Potter?" he asks softly, as though nothing was wrong. Harry takes a deep breath, tensed against the hand on his abdomen. _Fuck_. He really doesn't want it to go down anymore — nor up. He feels himself blushing red as a Quaffle.

The hands are somehow warmer — perhaps it's just because he's grown accustomed to the iciness, although he sees no point in this. It's not even some pleasant sensation...

_Wait! What the hell? Where has he been touching?_

"I'll cast a Warming Charm for you," he hisses, pushing hard at the man's hands, "Enough! Stop messing with me!"

"Feeling itchy?" The gentle voice brushes his earlobes like feathers, and Harry thinks he is totally out of mind from this moment on — he shouldn't — he will surely not get any sleep —

Satisfied, Voldemort withdraws his hands. The reaction of Harry is particularly interesting, which doesn't resemble anger, more like shame... The sensation is very different from what he experienced as a fragment resting inside the boy. It's more alluring, heated, something indecipherable while he was inside...

Harry jerks his sweater down hard, covering his face in hands; then he sits up and puts on a serious expression, "I'll cast the Warming Charm, so don't use me as a thermostat anymore."

"But it works, Potter."

"Really? Definitely not happy to hear that." The flush remains on the boy's cheeks, his fingers trembling a little around the wand. Under Voldemort's curious gaze, Harry glares at him once more.

He wastes no time casting the charm and returns the wand to Voldemort before he could urge him. Pulling the jacket tight around him, he lies down with his back against the other man.

 

TBC.

 


	5. Chapter 5

Draco truly wishes he could wake up home, lying cozily under the heavy, soft quilt in his extravagant bed, with a hot cup of tea on the nightstand. Even waking up with a group of strange, horrifying Death Eaters around him wouldn't matter, if compared with being trapped in a smelly ward with a broken arm.

He has no idea how he ended up like this. At first, he was merely wandering about on the street. Both tired and afraid of the atmosphere at home, he escaped from his parents' guard for some fresh air. He didn't have an intentional destination in mind, believing that anywhere would be the same — would be better than home.

He ate his own words only a few minutes later.

It was that snake. He hadn't seen it at Malfoy Manor for weeks, but at this moment it was with Harry Potter, his rival, who looked somehow different from usual. He gazed at him, nonchalant, apathetic, and he had never seen him so intimidating that he could barely look into those eyes, let alone mocking him, even his heart racing beyond his control.

Slowly, Draco opens his eyes, staring straight at the ceiling. It just felt like an unreal nightmare: the dark graveyard, the white tombstones, the slithering serpent, him cutting off his own arm obediently and it falling into a giant, boiling cauldron... The blood, the tears, lying limply in the snow, the winds howling above his head, no one cared whether he could live.

He wanted to go home. That was what he screamed about in his heart, that he was wrong and he wanted to go back — he would never sneak out again and he was sorry, truly sorry...

He sniffs at the irritant smell of disinfectant that almost draws his tears out as he moves the left arm, trying to lift his fingers — but he has none, nothing there; all that he can see is a thick roll of smelly gauze, and it finally strikes him that this is not a dream.

_He wants to go home, so, so much..._

Draco shudders when the door creaks open and turns to it instinctively, only to find there stand two last people that he wants to see.

"Are we here too early?" whispers the boy, who looks around hesitantly outside the door before entering with caution.

 _Right, too early. So get out._ He thinks viciously, right hand clenched into fist.

"He's awake," follows a higher voice, at which Draco immediately tenses.

The older one stops beside the door as the younger one slowly walks towards the bed. Draco nearly closes his eyes subconsciously, but he realises it would be useless. He hasn't got the nerve to lie before Lord Voldemort... But why is _Potter_ with their master?

"Malfoy," Harry gets himself a chair to sit next to him, "how are you doing? You've got any better?"

Narrowing his eyes, Draco speaks in a condescending tone, "I'm feeling quite well. You can save your concern, Potter."

"The healer said you could be discharged in a couple of days." Harry seems unaware of the sarcasm in his words, "You will be — err, able to go home, and..."

"I thought you were going to hold me captive," he interrupts.

Harry scratches his hair, embarrassed and temporarily speechless.

"— I'm not. I mean, there is some misunderstanding."

" _'Misunderstanding'_?" The pitch of his voice rises as if the word had stabbed him. "It was _misunderstanding_ that caused me an arm? Go to hell, Potter!"

"I —"

"Time, Potter." The sudden utterance from Voldemort startles them both. Draco grows paler, his blood frozen, and he again feels like tearing for no reason.

"I need a favour from you, Malfoy," Harry says quickly as he observes his expression, "When you go home, can you help me check if Hermione is there?"

He knows that Malfoy Manor has become the base of Death Eaters since year five, and if Hermione is still alive — he dares not make the opposite speculation — it's very likely that she's brought there.

"What, they got the mudblood?" Currently, Draco wants nothing but them leaving at once. Voldemort's gaze, so intense that it almost seems concrete, is making him increasingly uneasy.

"I'm not sure. She might be in your home."

Draco tosses a secret glimpse at Voldemort, completely oblivious of what is actually happening. His Lord is not only keeping Potter alive, but also allowing him to save others... Could this be a test? ...Then should he take up the request or not?

"I can't give you any promises now," he replies slowly after a while, "My hand hasn't recovered yet. We'll see."

He darts another look at Voldemort after he finishes. Seeing the man's expression remain inscrutable, his heart palpitates a little.

"Hmm... I know this may look dangerous, so I only need you to tell me if she is at the Manor, nothing more," says Harry, who also glances over his shoulder at Voldemort, confused to see the man doing nothing suspicious.

Draco goes silent for some time; finally he says, "I don't know. I don't think I can help. And I need to rest now to grow my arm back."

Harry still wants to strive for it when an icy hand seizes his arm. Turning around, he sees Voldemort right in front of him.

"Time's up."

"What? But haven't we talked —" Voldemort grabs Harry impatiently and strides towards the door before he could end the sentence. Dazed, Draco watches them put on the Invisibility Cloak as Voldemort shoots him a look, which has nearly frightened him to fall off the bed.

It's a warning. He knows. If he ever tells a word about what happened today, even what happened yesterday, he will be doomed.

 

"Why did you stop me? He was about to say yes. You never mentioned a thing about time limit before!" Harry breaks his grasp the moment they are out of the hospital. They are standing in a narrow, dusky alley, forced to stay close to one another under the Invisibility Cloak. The trees cast shades upon their faces and shoulders, painting them in a grey colour.

"It was a shame that I saw no sign of agreement."

"I haven't _tried_. How could you just —"

"Enough, you promised to cooperate. Don't waste time further."

Glaring at him, Harry bites his lower lip so hard that he almost draws blood. Of course, he ought to know. This man cares only about himself and it can't matter less whether Harry's friend can survive — how could it? He wants nothing more than the death of them all, doesn't he?

Perhaps conscious of his venomous glare, the man takes a step closer and pushes him against the damp wall of the valley with one hand on his shoulder.

"You regret it?" he asks in a low, dangerous voice. Harry shakes the hand off and replies coldly, "No."

"You better not."

 

Their agreement this morning was that Voldemort would accompany Harry to the hospital for reaching Draco, and in return, Harry would cooperate with Voldemort to get his magic back.

The agreement was apparently unfair, though Harry had later managed to add some other terms, but he really was not in the place to reject it. His wand was broken, without which there was no way he could get rid of Voldemort, and it was nearly impossible to steal the other one from him. He could possibly escape in some chaos, but by using the identity of Lord Voldemort, the man could easily search him out. He also considered robbing a wand in the hospital, but he denied that plan shortly after it was generated. He still remembered the poor people deprived of their wands in the Ministry, and he didn't know how they were going to deal with life and work without wands... He couldn't drag another person down with him. If some poor guy or his family got into misery because of him...

"Absolutely no. Why would I hand a knife to someone who wants to kill me?"

"Unless you don't want to see her again."

"Don't threat me with that. I'll find another way to save her." He was flustered.

"Perhaps, when you got to her, you could only see her for the last time," he said maliciously, satisfied with the flush on the boy's cheeks getting deeper. "You know it can be so."=

"But if you _kill_ me before I go for her, what's the fucking point? You think I will believe you?" he growled to him, "I'd rather come up with another plan. I'll know what I should do when the time comes."

Studying him for a while, Voldemort slowly uttered, "Five minutes."

"What?"

"When you get me my magic back, as the reward, I will pardon you for five minutes, within which there will be no attempt to kill you."

"Oh, shouldn't I be grateful?" he sneered, "Five minutes, how generous! I can't believe that's all you have to offer —"

"What else do you want?" he hissed, the voice suddenly icier, "I can't just let you off, Potter. You know better."

"I know very well," retorted Harry, "I will have ten minutes and a wand. The wand can't be seized forcibly by an innocent wizard or witch."

"It's impossible that I should prepare you a wand."

"No deal then? Great, I'm leaving now," said Harry angrily, "I'm not the one without magic anyway."

He shoved the Invisibility Cloak into the pocket and put on the jacket, heading out of the valley. It seemed sands had got into his shoes, hurting his feet slightly. He had only taken two steps away before the man grasped him tight by the shoulder and pulled him back, trapping him in his arms.

"I'll give you Draco's wand, but only after I reacquire my magic," he purrs at his ear, hot breath inflicting uneasiness, "Before that, if I discover any attempt to run from me, Potter..."

"Ten minutes —"

“Ten minutes won't help you. You will die in my hands, Potter!"

His grip was so tight that Harry felt his shoulders were going to break, his bones creaking. Gritting his teeth in pain, he refused to give in, "So do you agree or not?"

Voldemort stayed silent for several seconds, his grip loosing a little before it tightened again, " Eight minutes."

"Nine."

"Don't you bargain with me, brat!"

"This is about my life!" he roared back. Then his mouth was covered by Voldemort's hand; it smelt like cold herbs, not in a terrible way, but a somewhat soothing one. He opened his mouth and bit down, causing the man to wince, but he immediately grasped his chin instead as he pushed two fingers into his mouth.

Taken aback, Harry instinctively reached out to rid himself of the grip while the two fingers played with his tongue nimbly. Frustrated by the sensitive touch yet lacking quick wits to cope with it, he bit hard. Voldemort immediately withdrew and narrowed his eyes at the prints.

"Eight minutes and thirty seconds," he said.

"...I think we've been really immature." Harry rubbed his lips, feeling a bit sore in the teeth.

"We need an Unbreakable Vow." Voldemort ignored his comment.

"You don't trust me?" Harry frowned, "Alright, but do you think it will work?

"Are you regarding me as a Muggle?" Voldemort shot him a dark glare.

"Not really," he quickly replied, "Then let's get started, I guess... Is it okay that we don't have a third party?"

"It isn't necessary, but you have to hold a wand," he said handing the wand over and pointed out the mistake, "with your left hand."

They clasped their right hands, fingers tight around each other's arm to form the solemn gesture. Shaking the fringe away from his eyes, Harry shivered at Voldemort's intense gaze, which looked capable of draining his soul.

"Err... What next?"

"Place the tip onto our hands. This contract relies mainly on the spell, so follow me."

As instructed, Harry placed the tip of the wand onto their linked hands, his hand trembling a little and his eyes drifting away. The pale, thin lips of Voldemort moved slightly as he said quietly,

"Will you, Harry Potter, accompany Lord Voldemort to St. Mungo's Hospital to seek Draco's aid, and help him retrieve his magic afterwards?"

Harry swallowed. He had a strange feeling about these words but couldn't actually find fault.

"I will."

The wand quivered as a thin tongue of brilliant flame issued from it, glittering, and wound itself around their clasped hands. The back of Harry's hand started burning instantly.

"Before the reacquisition of his magic, will you forgo the attempts to flee, or to ask for rescue?"

"...I will."

A second tongue of flame shot from the wand and interlinked with the first, making a fine, glowing chain. 

Harry looked up to him, unaware of when sweat had broken out on his forehead. Hearing no more from Voldemort, he suddenly realised it was his turn.

"Err... Do I also need to refer to myself in third person?" he asked tentatively.

Voldemort did not give any response, the question seeming to have overstepped his tolerance of dumbness.

"Emm... After reacquiring your magic, will you give Ha - give me eight minutes and thirty seconds to run, and prepare a wand for me?"

"I will." Voldemort did not hesitate, and a thin tongue of flame shot from the other end of the wand, binding itself around their hands. The unsettling feeling deepened in Harry's heart.

"Will you ensure that no extreme means would be adopted during the process of fulfilling the contract?"

Mysteriously, Voldemort's mouth curved at the corner, though the small arc disappeared in no time.

"I will."

Their faces glowed red under the blaze of a fourth flame, their hands bound by four metallic fiery chains, like a covenant of fate.

 

They come to a meandering creek at the end of the alley, beside which is a dense grove, quiet and lonely under the shimmering morning sunshine.

"What's your plan?" asks Harry in a low voice the instant they step into the soft grass. They are leaning very close to each another, quite the contrary to Harry's habit, but he chooses to ignore at the moment.

"I need enter your brain," Voldemort states bluntly.

Harry's expression freezes at the emerging memories of those obnoxious Occlumency lessons; invasion in brain has never been some pleasant experience.

"You're going to perform Legilimency? But you can't use magic right now."

"I know, so I need you to let me in."

"I don't understand," says Harry honestly, "It doesn't sound like a good idea."

"Open your brain to Lord Voldemort, Potter... It is as simple as adding thoughts into a Pensieve. You can do this."

"But I've never used a Pensieve. I mean, I never tried to add my own memories into one." The more Harry ponders on it, the more convinced he is that there is conspiracy behind. "Isn't there any other method?"

"This is the only way. If you want to have a try at retrieving your memory first, I can lend you the wand, but don't you even attempt to run, Potter. You do know the consequence of breaking the contract..."

Taking up the wand, Harry again feels his teeth sore. He surmises that Voldemort has done quite an amount of study on the Unbreakable Vow, and has exploited it in deception more than once — his wording was flawless, arousing suspicion naturally.

"I don't know what to do."

"What would you like to start with?"

"Err... just get on with it. I want to end it quick." He scratches the back scalp.

"Take my hand then," he says. Harry pauses for a second before he stretches out his left hand and holds Voldemort's. This time he finds the skin of the hand he's holding slightly different from the common; it's very smooth, like silk under the moonlight.

"Look at my eyes, Potter... Empty your brain... You must offer me absolute trust..." he speaks distinctly slowly, lowly, even gently. Harry can't help gazing into those crimson eyes, the pupils a pair of slits, thin as the snakes he once saw in the bathroom of Moaning Myrtle... The hand he's been holding becomes slippery, as though it's going to slide away, and his grip tightens unconsciously all of a sudden. The man curses beside him, meanwhile the mesmerising sensation around his whole body all gone. Harry staggers gack, hand pressed on his forehead, while Voldemort rubs his wrist, a red mark left there.

"What were you doing, Potter?" His icy stare focuses on Harry.

"Nothing," murmuring, Harry secretly glances at the man's hand, "I thought you were drawing your hand back."

“My hand has never moved," he scorns, "Remember my instruction... _Absolute trust_ , boy, you need render all of you to my control. Understood?"

"Not quite."

"Say that again?"

"Alright. The foundation of our trust is built merely on an Unbreakable Vow. Don't expect me to trust you as I trust Dumbledore."

"That would be enough. Beware your place. You are not in charge here. Do you see?"

"Perhaps."

"Potter —"

"Okay, I see. Go on then."

The second attempt didn't get much progress, for Harry accidentally stepped on Voldemort's feet at sensing the man approaching.

"I said I didn't move at all, Potter!"

"Maybe you did, subconsciously, 'cause I felt it." Harry finds his tone a bit less certain now, "I don't appreciate having someone in my head."

"I haven't yet," he scoffs, "I am very clear about what your brain contains."

Perhaps due to fatigue, he falls straight against the man's chest the third time, head dizzy and eyes sore, tears streaming down uncontrollably.

"I don't think this is gonna work." Harry takes off his glasses and wipes away the tears, leaning weakly against the tree as he inhales deeply, "I feel sick once the thought of absolute trust in _you_ comes to me."

"Then you better get used to it," the man says as he watches him from a distance.

"I need rest," Harry chooses not to carry on with the topic, "And I haven't had breakfast yet."

 

Harry decides he's been through too many surreal scenarios over these days, all of them related to Voldemort — being saved by the man, sleeping together with him, even making the first Unbreakable Vow in his entire life. As for now, the list is extended by another event — having breakfast with Lord Voldemort.

Having viewed Lord Voldemort in a supernatural way as people did with him, Harry usually pictures a man who needs no food, no rest, and is always, with full energy, ordering the Death Eaters around for perpetration or hunting after what he craves.

However, the old image has gradually lost its credibility. Voldemort made Harry steal some bread and milk from a nearby shop. Hermione would have put some money in the cabinet, but neither of them has Muggle currency.

They take their time having the breakfast, the bread smelling good and tasting tender, while the milk mildly sweet and warm. Harry sips from the milk as he secretly observes Voldemort. He wasn't given many chances to look at the man so closely. Their confrontations have always been intended for the death of one party, leaving them little space for getting to know each other. Harry has learnt some about his past from Dumbledore, but not much, important in one way while unhelpful in another — the knowledge has mainly portrayed a demon to some extent, which is hardly what he needs at present.

Voldemort's face is flattened and contorted due to the separation of soul and numerous Dark Arts rituals, but once one is accustomed to this look, it becomes less frightening. His limbs are slender, and his skin appears pearlescent, radiating from the magic used to construct it. Evidently, no matter how far he seems from an actual human, he is still one.

He chews very slowly when eating the bread, some crumbs occasionally remained on his lips. For a flashing moment, a weirdest idea comes into mind that urges Harry to lick the crumbs off. Panicking, Harry thinks he must have starved into madness.

Voldemort didn't consume the milk and hands it to Harry, which disappoints the observer a little.

"You're allergic to milk?" he wonders.

The man spares him no response but a glance.

"Or you think it's too sweet?"

"Are you trying to please me?" Voldemort begins to look suspicious.

"Obviously not," Harry denies instantly, but after a while of hesitation, he adds, "I'm just a little curious... You seem picky about the food." Harry could be imagining it, since he has never dined with Voldemort before, nor has he ever heard anything about his habits.

"I don't like it," It takes the man quite some time, long enough for Harry to stop expecting a reply, to finally answer.

Harry's heart misses a beat, his chest tightening a little. He can't help wondering how many people have ever heard it from Voldemort — in its literal meaning. Voldemort, apparently, won't allow himself to be predictable, the human features in him declining day after day. It seems that his obsession with power and magic has bereaved him of the ability to take interest in other things. He remembers how his ignorance of love had shocked him in their conversation in the woods.

"What _do_ you like?" asks Harry. He himself has a lot in mind, the Christmas feast, the exciting trips at night, Quiddich, his Invisibility Cloak and Marauder's Map. He can go on and on and on, ordinary person as he is. But Voldemort — apart from power, what else does he care about?

"This question is rather meaningless," narrowing his eyes, Voldemort studies him contemplatively, "regardless for you or for me."

"You're a great detective of people's preferences. Is that why you hate being investigated by others?" Harry recalls the candied pineapple for Slughorn and the bouquet of roses for Hepzibah.

"Wrong. The only way to please me is to obey, Potter. Quit your tricks."

Harry rolls his eyes in the heart, scolding himself for wasting time.

 

Those so-called experiments with Voldemort have been both exhausting and futile. Although they are now restricted by the Unbreakable Vow, Harry still finds it nearly impossible to trust someone who planned his murder. No matter how many times Voldemort has emphasised forgetting his own presence and offering up self-control, it's still way too hard to actualise, the task as onerous as asking someone with perfect sight to walk blindfolded, whose fear and insecurity keep luring him to open his eyes before completion, despite knowing there is no obstacle in the way.

To let Voldemort intrude his brain is as eerie as to open a safe that contains all his private possessions to a burglar, all his secrets allowed for observation as his emotions for stirring... Even giving this right to a closest friend would be an awkward experience, lest a mortal enemy.

Nonetheless, when Harry wakes up on the ground for the fifth time, it's hard to tell which one between him and Voldemort is more annoyed.

"What happened?" asks Harry with half sincerity as he massages his head, his forehead left with a red mark by the stone.

"I'm not inclined to repeat the foolishness you displayed." The man stares at him dangerously.

"What a coincidence, I'm not inclined to know, either," he mutters. "Fancy some food?"

"Hungry already?"

"Not really. I'm just a bit of thirsty."

Voldemort raises his brows after glancing at him, "You need a shave."

Harry discovers that Voldemort consumes a distinguishably small amount of food, almost half as much as he eats, although he has actually reduced the consumption since the journey began. Harry won't label himself as a gobbler. He didn't get enough food when he was little, but even so he didn't turn into some obese teenager, like Dudley, after entering Hogwarts. Still, the moderation he shows is nothing compared to Voldemort — who is absolutely abstinent. If Harry hadn't know better, he would probably say the man is on a diet.

"Does it taste that bad?" Harry fails to stop himself from wondering.

"Nothing different for me."

"Do you always eat this little? I mean, did Dark Magic modify your body or something?"

"You have too many questions, Potter, and most of them are impeccably childish," he jeers.

This is his attitude. He can't care less about everything in life. Harry is simply unable to comprehend his endurance of such a tasteless life — and his conviction to prolong it, even to immortality. He doesn't enjoy his life, which is blank except hatred and solitude. He knows not what it feels to love, not even what it feels to like. He can endure anguish and swallow humiliation, he can lie low in Albania and rise again after years, but what _for_?

Harry recalls Dumbledore's stories about how Voldemort looked less and less like a man while he splitting his soul into pieces. The damage to the soul has naturally gone beyond influencing his appearance, dehumanising him in every sense.

Absentmindedly, Harry has made numerous mistakes during their further attempts at night, even Voldemort's reprimanding ineffective to get him focused, most of which recedes unnoticed.

In an interval, he cautiously leans forward to check Voldemort's black robe, the presumably only one Voldemort ever wears according to the recollection of their several encounters. It is as cool and soft as silk, but instead of any fabric, the robe seems weaved plainly by magic. When Voldemort doesn't pay him attention, he touches the robe and lets the dark cloth run across his fingertips fluidly, shining like shattered starlight in dark clouds. Before he could study more closely, the man turns around to look straight at him. Harry goes stiff for a second, and withdraws his hand with a sheepish grin, "Err — just curious."

Voldemort's stare stays on him, so piercing that it sends a shiver down his spine.

"It seems you always wear the same clothes," he adds.

"...You appear particularly curious about me today." The man leans closer, palm on the back of his hand, cold as a layer of ice. "What's the intention?"

"Hey, you can't be the only one peering into others' hearts. "

"You did that before, Potter."

"I did, but those were merely several glimpses of emotions."

"You wish to learn more?" he slightly narrows his eyes.

"Hmm... I mean, this will help implement the plan. If I learn more about you, I might also trust you a little more." Rubbing his nose, Harry draws near to the other man, and he smells a cold scent resembling the mixture of frost and tree bark. Snowflakes has fallen on his lenses, while his hot breath fog them up.

Voldemort's icy eyes fixated on him for a moment, his reply is neutral to Harry's suggestion, "There is a better solution to your trust issues, Potter."

"And what is that?" Harry frowns at the premonition that it wouldn't be easy for him to accept.

"If we see no improvement tomorrow, I will inform you." Voldemort's head is tilted to one side; it seems that he is also unwilling to discuss it, rendering Harry even more anxious.

"You weren't referring to Dark Arts, were you?"

"No. Enough, go to rest." He urges him to cast the protective charms, but Harry remains motionless. He realises that he has already consumed one whole day out of his precious, limited time, yet no progress made.

"I don't want to," he states.

"What do you want then?" Voldemort is losing his patience, the outline of his pale face blurring under the dim light at night like an opaque mask, a gauzy shadow, nothing more transparent than the man himself.

"I want to have a look at the hospital," Harry gazes towards the direction of St. Mungo's, where he can only see darkness devouring shadows, as though there wander the spirits of the dead buried under snow.

"It's late."

Merely an excuse. The later it gets, the safer their sneaking will be, and Voldemort is aware of this. He is simply reluctant to let him go saving his friends, thus adopting a new approach of manipulation by occupying his time, consuming his energy, draining all the resilience as well as anything valuable left in him. He can't make it easy for him.

"If you come with me, it won't matter," his serious gaze locked on the man.

A moment of silence has passed before Voldemort waves to him, "Come here, boy."

Harry hesitates, but steps towards him after all. The first move is the hardest, as if he was dragging his leg out of ice.

Voldemort cracks a smile as he watches him coming closer, and pats him on the back, his hand left there while he whispers, "You're tired, Potter... We've pushed it a little too hard today, haven't we? I can tell..."

Harry doesn't retort at his words, the spark of hope dying soundlessly within, of which even ashes can't be found. He stares expressionlessly at the ground, where their dark blue shadows intertwine like an intimate couple. Clenching his fist, Harry performs the enchantments for protection as usual and lies down on the soft grass. The wind is exceptionally heavy tonight, howling in the woods and making the branches swing violently. Aside from shouts of children and sporadic sirens that come from a distance, there is nothing audible but their quiet breaths in the silence. Harry folds the Invisibility Cloak before he puts it into the pocket; shuddering a little, he curls up, ready to sleep.

Pretend to sleep, in fact. Regardless of the consequences, he has to show the other one his attitude, since he wouldn't be able to kill him anyway.

Only then he is yanked by the back of his collar and pulled into an embrace forcefully, an arm across his chest settled on his shoulder. Harry turns half of his body around rigidly, finding himself lying against the man's neck, the white chin of Voldemort less than an inch away.

He turns back so fast as though shocked by electricity. In a daze, he finds that the hand has landed somewhere awkward. Harry reckons that he didn't mean so, but he still feels... uncomfortable.

"Err... I can't sleep like this."

No response.

"I mean, you can place your hand on my waist," he suggests.

The man finally moves and slowly withdraws his hand, lying on the side to gaze at him.

"Your _waist_?" he repeats slowly, chewing the word with interest, "I tried to do so the last time. "

Harry's face is burning so hot that he wonders if it could fume, his throat tightened.

"I'm not saying that you should do _that_ again, What I mean is... you can hold me, instead of —" Harry fails to continue, feeling as embarrassed, if not more, as being naked. Voldemort's expression reveals nothing peculiar, but his look makes his skin crawl.

"I see what you mean," he says thoughtfully and lays his hand on Harry's waist. Even with the clothes between, Harry's heart beats faster on the instant. "We need more physical contact."

Those words remain unconceivable for a while, since Harry's mind is currently a total mess with various thoughts jarring inside his head, his original aim forgotten temporarily. _Perhaps he isn't conscious of the subtlety of their position, or he is, but he just doesn't care..._ No, no, he should be loathing instead of inviting upon this. He _hates_ everything about him, the selfishness, the arrogance, the ultimate cruelty, but meanwhile he sympathises with the man's predicament in perceiving certain things — such pitiful, pathetic ignorance.

Harry feels flames ignited in his chest with conflict and struggle, burning everything within him, while the hand placed on his waist, cold as snow, moves lightly, indicating the man might have noticed how troubled his mind is. _He can't, just can't... he shouldn't..._

He tries hard to relax and pretends to have fallen asleep. Time seems suddenly extended, and the best way to spend it is to study the spidery hand, the arc of its knucles when it holds him, the slim fingers and the black nails, the thin wrist under the sleeve... Harry tears his gaze off as he takes a deep breath, strange ideas emerging once again during his observation.

It looks like the man behind him is asleep, the moderate rhythm of his chest rising and falling has calmed Harry down. He wraps that hand carefully before puts it away. Taking a moment to make sure Voldemort won't wake up, he comes to feet as quietly as possible, reaches into the pocket for the Invisibility Cloak and slips into it.

After a glance at the man lying behind, he stealthily passes the magical wards. Another look over his shoulders takes in the sight of Voldemort lying there silently, almost indistinguishable from the grass in the dark. Pulling the cloak tighter, Harry runs towards St. Mungo's Hospital, his heart beating rapidly.

 

TBC.

 


	6. Chapter 6

The St. Mungo's Hospital works 24/7, so even at midnight, when the lights of wards are already off, there are still a number of healers on the night shift. Harry sneaks into the lobby through the shopwindow of the department store as an invisible figure, thus unnoticed by the sleepy glance from the yawning receptionist.

He has memerised the route to Draco's ward on the fifth floor last time. Given the quietness in the hospital, Harry tries not to make any sound louder than the the spinning wheels of trolleys and people's murmuring as he tiptoes through the healers and passes numerous wards.

After turning at a corner, he stops, and leans to the wall for a rest beside some potted plants, wiping away the sweat on his forehead. A patient in Draco's ward is about to leave, so Harry waits for ten seconds until his loud voice fades away. Checking around, he carefully enters the ward and closes the door behind him.

For a minute, he simply stands motionlessly with his back against the door, eyes fixed on the bulge in the bed, his heart bumping rapidly against his ribs, causing nausea. His legs are numb for quite some time before he regains strength.

Although there is dim corridor light streaming in the window, it barely prevents Harry from stumbling over a chair. As hard as he tries to keep quiet, the heavy hem of his cloak brushes across a bedpost and lets out an inharmonious sound of friction in the silent room.

"Who is that?" The one in the bed sits upright immediately and leans back to reach for the light, his right hand groping in dark. In fear of alerting the healer, Harry rushes to press down his hand, "Stop! It's me, Malfoy."

" _Potter?!_ "

Draco struggles violently in astonishment and anger; he even makes an attempt to kick Harry in the abdomen. Realising he was about to yell for help, Harry instantly stretches out a hand to cover Draco's mouth and consequently fails to protect himself from the kick. Acute pain bursts when the Invisibility Cloak falls off him.

“Don't yell, I'm here in peace," between gasps, he pleads in a hoarse voice, "Just listen to me, and I'll leave once I finish. I'm sorry — really sorry to bother you this late. But I've got no choice."

Draco seems to calm down a little and stops struggling, so Harry lets go of his right hand before he says, "I'll take my hand off your mouth if you promise not to yell."

Draco does nothing but stare at him. Harry removes his hand slowly but still holds it out in the air. It's not until he is sure that Draco won't call for help that he puts it down and lets out a relieved breath.

"Sorry to bother you," he repeats and picks up the Cloak. Frowning, Draco checks the bondage around his left arm with caution, and shoots him a glare, "You were on my arm."

"I - I'm sorry, I didn't mean to." Harry immediately leans in to check it with him, only to be pushed away.

"If anything should go wrong, Potter, you're done."

"I know."

"What do you want from me?" He wrinkles his nose and retreats from Harry, "Don't tell me you are here for the same thing this morning."。”

"Acutually, I am," Harry sighs, "You're probably annoyed, but I have to do this."

"What could I get from this, Potter?" he asks icily after a tut, "Would it do any good to me if you manage to rescue the Mudblood?"

Before Harry could answer, he goes on, "No, not at all. Master would punish us, we'd all suffer his rage... But you don't care, do you? Why should you anyway?"

Fists clenched, Harry senses pain from where his nails dig into the palm. Malfoy is right. It never occured to him that his operation would only lead Draco to a disaster. If Hermione isn't at Malfoy's Mannor, things won't change, but if she is, they will be on opposite sides... No, haven't they always been on opposite sides?

Nevertheless, he still has to _try_.

"You can ask for compensation — anything within my competence."

Draco raises his brows, lips twitching a little. Then he looks down and asks in a seemingly casual tone, "Really? ...You mean _anything_ , Potter?"

"As long as it's within my competence."

"Oh," he smirks and looks up, eyes full of vice, "What if I want you dead?"

Harry inhales deeply. He knew it.

"No, not this one."

"No deal then, Potter," he snaps, "Get out of here, or I'll scream."

" _Please, Malfoy_ —"

 _"Get out!_ " He raises the voice and sits even straighter, frost spreading in his countenance. Harry stumbles back. The rim of his eyes has gone pink, and his vision blurrs.

Now the only sounds in the room come from their short breaths, Harry trembling slightly as gripping his Invisibility Cloak tight, while Draco leaning against the headboard with his chest rising and falling. Over a moment of silence, the latter suddenly asks,

"What is it between you and Master?"

Harry looks up and tracks a trace of confusion in Draco's eyes.

"...We have an agreement, a temporary one," he explains briefly.

"That is to say he still wants to kill you — after your agreement is terminated?"

"Certainly."

Draco muses for a while. Then he straightens his bent collar, and finally speaks, "Come here, Potter."

"What?"

"Do you have any time to waste? Or you just want to stay here?"

A tiny spark of hope is ignited in his heart. _Maybe he'll help him, maybe he changed his mind_... Harry slowly approaches him and stops in front of the bed, while Draco retreats, eyes fixed on Harry as he says softly, "You know, Potter, I've detested your people for a lot of reasons... Needless to mention you cost me an arm this time..."

Harry is about to argue, but he resists the urge.

"If I find the Mudblood locked up in my house, I'll tell her that you have never quitted looking for her, so she can rest in peace..." He forces himself to sneer, teeth chattering unnaturally, " _Adieu, Potter._ "

He rings the assistance bell the moment he finishes. Sharp tinckling bursts in the ward.

Dazed for a mere second, Harry rushes towards the door as he pulls up the Invisibility Cloak. However, he has hardly got out of the door before he bumps into a man, someone cold as steel. He looks up right into the wax-pale, mask-like face that has haunted him in countless nightmares. Voldemort grips his collar and rips the cloak off, pulls him back into the room and slams the door. The bang echoes in the corridor like waves that break the sea ice, drowning any other sound.

Voldemort throws Harry to the side of Draco, who is arealdy paling visibly due to fright and trembling under the quilt.

"My... my lord..."

A glance from the man is enough to shut him up.

In a cold sweat, Harry just leans to the wall and inhales deeply, gritting his teeth while watching the man. _He did this on purpose. He knew he would come here, but said nothing._

"Have you learnt your mistake?" Voldemort shoots a frosty look at him.

Harry swallows and responds rigidly, "I've made none."

"I'm not in the mood to teach you a lesson now, Potter..."

"Oh, why not?" he shouts, startling a small scream from Draco. "Do whatever you like. I'm fine with it! You wish to torture me, or kill me. I know you always do. Don't try to defend yourself, 'cause it's way too clear. I knew what would happen, I knew I'd fail, _but I would do this no matter what_. You can punish me now with any idea among the thousands you've come up with. Torture me as you like, but given another single chance, I'll still go to save my friend. Of course I don't expect you to understand — you don't have _friends_!"

" _That's enough!_ " the man snaps, his sharp nails suddenly at Harry's throat. Harry coughes as the air is blocked in his trachea. He struggles in the man's grip, vision darkening and blurring... _If he dies here..._ ** _Even if_** _he dies here, he shall_ ** _never_** _surrender._

Voldemort's nails leave his throat as suddenly as they reached for it, and Harry falls to the ground on his back, a twinge starting there. He continues coughing until tears stream down his face while his sight remains dark.

 _Run._ A voice in his head urges, the pain in the skin around his throat still sharp. _Damn that vow, and just run. You are a fool, Harry. Only a fool would have trusted Voldemort, would have believed there was still chance to redeem him. What a fool..._

_Run._

Voldemort stares at the boy on the groud for a while, his expression capricious. The boy's shoulders are heaving and falling to the rhythm of his coughes — such coughes ripping the silence in the room apart. A strange feeling emerges, which he hasn't experienced for a long time... No, he hasn't experienced it ever. Those gasps and shallow pants are disturbing. They are tempting his yearning for killing...

"You'll get what you want. But you know you don't need anyone... to save you." The boy speaks again, his voice unusually low, probably as the consequence of the deprivation of air a moment ago.

Impatience shimmers in Voldemort's eyes; he bends and pulls the boy up, lifting his chin. The unconcealable spite and disgust in Harry's eyes have never been so intense. _Only he dares... He's allowed the boy too much..._

He turns to the bed, where Draco has been trying to keep himself unnoticed. He shudders and stiffs the moment he meets the man's look.

"What were you doing?" he questions coldly.

"I - I —" Draco grips the quilt tight, his arm shaking as violently as his voice, "I'm sorry, my lord —"

"What for are you apologising to Lord Voldemort?" He interrogates, scarlet eyes shining dangerously in the dark, elicting extreme fright.

" _I'm sorry, it's all my fault, my lord! Have mercy on me_ —" He dares not make any move but wagging his head anxiously, tears reaching the brink of his eyes. "I'm loyal to you. It's Potter, it's him!"

"I don't need you to tell me anything about Potter, Draco... _Do_ tell me about yourself — what was on your mind?"

With a blank and contorted face, Draco struggles to recall what on earth he has done wrong until Harry can bear no more. He shoves the man away and growls, "What's your fucking problem? Wasn't he trying to do what you have always been dreaming about, Riddle?"

"Shut up, Potter!" He suddenly turns to him with a furious glare and a horrifying visage, but Harry refuses to be frightened. He simply goes on, "Isn't that it? The only thing wrong was his terrible luck that got him caught by you. But who would want a Chirstmas at hospital? Oh, maybe you don't even know what _Christmas_ is, Riddle."

" ** _Harry Potter_**!" Voldemort finally lost it. After a glance at Draco and a "you are on your own", he drags Harry out of the ward and slams the door again in fury. Draco watches them leave with fear, the man's words echoing in his ears like a threat. He can hold the tears no more.

 

Harry's arm aches severely in the grip so tight as if it is the sole sacrifice for the man's rage. He starts to seriously consider whether he should tear it off and gift it to Voldemort, provided his particular interest in other people's arms.

They descend the stairs in suffocating silence that seems to devour the last bit of warmth, leaving the staircase in a soul-draining iciness. Numberless plans of escape, however absurd, flash through Harry's mind: _fling his hand away and run into the alley, fight him, knock him out when he's asleep..._ They excite him, causing an adrenaline rush. He bites his lips hard to suppress the urge to shudder, but his bones are crackling uncontrollably nevertheless.

Forcibly, Voldemort has dragged him back to their resting spot at night, where the bent grass indicates that someone was sleeping here. He lets him go with a shove and gazes at the grass for a while before he utters, "You want to end this as soon as possible, don't you?"

Harry doesn't feel like answering him, so he looks away, only to put a darker shade on the man's countenance.

"Lose your clothes," he orders.

"... _What_?" Harry eventually reacts to his words.

"I will not repeat it. Or do you prefer that _I_ help you with it?"

They glower at each other for a moment, and Harry's fist comes at the man. Voldemort seizes his wrist before the punch lands and locks his hand behind his back, starting to pulling his jacket off.

"You fucking get off me!" Harry roars as he rids himself of the grip, stumbling back in an awkward manner. Breathing rapidly, he wipes off the sweat on his forehead, unzips the jacket and throws it to the ground.

After studying him for a moment, Voldemort's pale lips twitch, "Lose them _all_ , Potter."

" _What the fuck?_ "

"You heard me."

"You want to _whip_ me?" his face contorts. A gust of wind sweeps across the nape of his neck, sending a shiver down his spine.

"Shut your mouth and do as I said!"

"I am not your fucking Death Eater!" he growls, whole body quivering in sheer ire, "I am Harry Potter! Can't you see that? Or should I lend you my glasses? You really think that you can just order me around because of _the bloody Vow_? Because I dare not defy you under it? You think I fear you as mush as Malfoy does, and won't say a single damn word about anything you do? _Wake, up!_ You chose me as your mortal enemy, you marked me your _equal_!"

He pants hard when he finishes, blushing all over his cheeks. As freezing as the wind is, it fails to calm him down. _What the hell is all this?_ They should return where they started, as arch-enemies to each other, playing their actual parts. He's almost fed up.

"Beware the vow, Potter." A few minutes later, Voldemort's voice starts beside his ear. Harry sneers with piercing mockery, "Oh, don't worry. Unlike you, I keep my promises."

" _Keep talking to me like this_ —"

"I don't even want to _talk_ to you," Harry interrupts, "I'll just shut up, satisfied?"

The man scowls at him for several seconds, and steps forward to lift his chin up forcefully.

"What a coincidence that I should also wish to end this as soon as possible... If you really hope so, lose all your clothes, now. This is the only way left. Are we clear?"

Harry's heart misses a beat at the recollection of the "solution" Voldemort mentioned before they went to sleep. He jerks his head to get away from the man's hand and steps back, starting to deal with his sweater with an expressionless face.

In winter, few would consider losing all their clothes less than an ordeal, especially with the cold wind blowing on their skin and absorbing every bit of heat. Harry shakily throws his jacket to the ground, and starts losing his trousers slowly after glancing at Voldemort in his peripheral vision.

The man finally nods at him when Harry has nothing on but his underpants. Holding his arms, Harry advances towards him, too cold to voice his curses.

Voldemort seats himself in the grass and points at his lap, "Sit."

Sniffing, Harry begins to doubt if coldness has already caused him permanent head damage.

"You heard me, Potter?"

But for his unwillingness to talk to Voldemort, Harry would ask the man to repeat where exactly he is ordered to sit. Nevertheless, he obeys and sits down with his back towards Voldemort, only to stiff the moment Voldemort lifts him up by the waist and puts him on his lap, Harry's back now against the skinny chest.

The first sensation is iciness. In spite of being warmer than the winds, Voldemort's body temprature appears much lower than Harry's. Unlike when they slept with the heavy clothes, currently the only cloth between them is a silk robe. Harry can almost feel the other one's heart beating against his muscle.

He soon cease to think about Voldemort's heart beat — when the hand starts to slither upwards from his waist.

He has long noticed the weirdly large size of the man's hand, but not as consciously as now that a small move brings the palm to somewhere awkward. Harry can't decide whether he should feel irritated or insulted, perhaps both, perhaps neither, but Voldemort's hand keeps moving slowly and steadily. Harry swallows, the Adam's apple of his bobbing up and down. He is being stroked, as he can tell indeed — with whatever purpose, the man's hand is now glued on his skin.

"Stay still, Potter," sensing his struggle, the man tightens the other hand's grip, "This is _not_ my favourite solution, but you made me hasten the steps."

Face extremely heated, Harry can no longer think straight with Voldemort's hand moving to his chest, icy and silkily gentle. The hand rest there for an unusually long moment. It appears to have taken the very spot as somewhere essential, somewhere in need of special care.

 _Damn_. Harry stops himself from moaning just in time. _What the hell is this trick?、_

Seemingly satisfied, the hand slithers down to his abdomen. Relieved, Harry changes to a posture that allows him to sit more comfortably in the arms of the man, who gives him a jolt once more by stroking to an even lower spot, reaching under the cloth.

" _What the fuck are you doing?_ " he eventually yells out as he seizes the hand. Voldemort forces him to loose the grasp and says impatiently, "Surrender yourself, Potter! You must get used to this!"

"I didn't signed up for — _fuck_ — ah..." Harry forgets all about coldness now, for the rising heat is consuming his sense. Shame and anger have devoured him, but he still cannot restrain the physiological response. He has never expected this. After neglecting and oppressing such needs in the busy days for so long, the stimulus is irresistable. He has to grit his teeth to build control over himself, so that he won't lean eagerly into the man's hand. This is so completely wrong. If the "solution" means _this_ , he now understands why Voldemort was that reluctant.

His underwear is quickly stained, and Harry bites into the man's shoulder, clutching tight. Voldemort pulls him off, which adjusts them in a vis-à-vis position, so that he could massage the boy's tensed muscle with both hands on his back.

"Relax, Potter. You must trust me..."

"How many times do we have to try?" he hisses in anger and frustration as he grips the man's robe.

“Until you have no problem with it. Since neither of us wants this, I suggest that you cooperate with me, so we may finish this sooner."

"...There must be another way."

"Physical contact gains me your trust. You are still unconsciously resisting me, Potter!" the man spits out his accusation, and Harry is shocked by how self-righteous he sounds. "Unless you can eradicate that resistance yourself, we have to adopt the new strategy."

Harry lets out a gasp, "I'm confident about myself."

"I would be as confident if you could at least handle _this_."

 

When Harry casts a spell to clean his underwear, the only thought he holds is to obliviate Voldemort.

 _A tempting idea indeed, if he could seize the chance..._ Harry turns around slightly only to meet Voldemort's gaze. He blushes for no reason and snaps his head back.

Unlike the man, he has just passed seventeen and holds apparently normal needs, which he has been neglecting for a while... _So he shouldn't be ashamed for coming for several times..._

After redressing himself and pulling the zip all the way up, he reluctantly proceeds toward Voldemort. It's already midnight, but the man looks as spirited as ever, not showing the slightest weariness. Harry slowly lies down on the grass as he takes off the glasses while suspiring.

_He won't surrender himself... This musn't happen. Once he starts to trust him, sooner or later he will pay for such credulity._

The man behind once again wraps his arms around Harry's waist, causing him to squirm uneasily. Harry tries to persuade himself that this is a part of 'training', and he just needs to get used to it.

 _He only needs to get used to it_ , thinks Harry on the edge of sleep, _just get used to it..._

However, in the moring, he is appalled to find himself entirely wrapped in Voldemort's embrace and leaning tightly to his shoulder.

 _He couldn't have made this happen_. Harry defends himself in despair, but he would rather admit he might have unconsciously got himself an inappropriate cushion than believe Voldemort would allow him to sleep against his chest, face to face.

The man is yet awake, his eyes closed, and he looks like a surreal painting. His arms hold tight around Harry's waist, unneglectable despite the thick clothes in between. Harry is just in the right position to see his slender neck, glittering faintly under in the sunlight.

Voldemort has almost groped him everywhere last night, but he didn't touch his neck. _No, he did before_ — he seized that vulnerable spot in sheer rage, a death threat.

 _Maybe he can also have a try; they always say 'an eye for an eye'_... _So which of them has become too accustomed to all this? The atrocious Lord Voldemort has laid down his guards, giving his nemesis a chance to take revenge._

The thinking speeds up his heartbeat, his pulse now drumming to his ears. The man's neck within reach, he can easily cause him pain... But he looks away. Harry swallows, hand reaching into his pocket.

"What are you doing?" He stiffs at the man's icy voice.

"You're awake."

"Certainly, otherwise I would see the wand in your hand now," sneering, he sweeps off Harry's hand. "You've been staring at my neck for quite a while. I thought you were taking action..."

"I _was_. But it was pointless." Harry forces himself to retort.

Voldemort spares him a glance and demands casually, "Loose your clothes."

Harry immediately blushes on recalling what happend last night. He grits his teeth for the hundredth time, "What for?"

"Let me see... Come here, Potter. I'm not going to touch you there — your reaction still manifests your resistance!"

"How am I supposed to _get used to it_! Would you like someone's hands all over you?" he finally yells at the man.

"You have no choice," the man states cruelly.

After glaring at him long enough, Harry takes off his clothes on the upper body at last. Voldemort, as promised, avoids touching anywhere lower, but his touches have been enough to arouse this young and sensitive body. Harry fights against the rising impulse in his chest and bites on his own lips to prevent himself from produing any possible noise. He doesn't want to reveal he good he feels. Those cold fingers have ignited him, heat under his skin flows in the way lava does under the earth. He even wants more... His hand stealthily slides under his trousers in an attempt to relieve himself from the frustration, only to be stopped before he could begin.

"You can't move, Potter."

" _What?_ "

"I have made it clear that you are not in charge!"

"It doesn't make any sense!"

"Control yourself. Don't tell me you're already too excited to wait," he mocks.

Harry curses him genuinely in his heart, but follows the order anyway, though he is about to explode of frustration. When Voldemort is retrieving his hand, he presses it down subconsciously in spite of having no idea where the impulse comes from.

"What?" The crimson eyes are fixed on him, like two abysses.

"Nothing," Harry replies dryly, but he won't let go of his hand. "Where did you learn about this method?"

"From speculation. If you refuses to let go, Potter, I might take it as a plea for another round."

"What if it is?" he utters despite himself. When he realises what he has said, his face is burninging like fire. He tries to make up for it, "I mean, I'm far from positive about your own speculation."

The man frowns as he leans closer, his shadow covering a shirtless Harry.

"Potter, are you provoking me?"

Biting down at his lips hard, Harry gives in and surrenders himself to _the frustration_ , "Fine! If you wish, do it! Could you just carry it through?"

Voldemort remains motionless; a rare confusion appears in his expression, "You sound puzzling. You are referring to —"

"I'm saying I want you to _touch me_ , the way you did last time!" Harry totally abandons himself, knowing he is done, knowing this, showing his weakness to Voldemort, is going to be the ultimate stigama in his life, along with acquiring pleasure from his enemy. A mere night — a mere night of descent had him undone, had him forget how much he hates this man. Disgusting.

In no time he is again as exposed as last night, but this time he lies down and lets himself to be fiddled. _Get used to it._ He comforts himself. _It helps him break away from this man sooner, and all these messed-up desires and illusions will disappear. He'll be the same Harry Potter as if he hadn't crossed a line with Lord Voldemort._

All pretence discarded, he didn't suppress the moans this time. When he gets up between panting, Voldemort suddenly grasps his wrists and presses him back down to the ground. Only then he figures out something is wrong with the man.

"Come on, Potter, look at me..." he flips him over, gazing at his face, tracing the remaining signs of orgasm greedily. Before Harry is aware of the hypnotic eyes, he is drowning in them.

It is as if a hand is gently caressing his soul, coaxing access to his memories, yearning to explore every corner... It's a feeling of being gazed deeply. In a void of consciousness, he travels through the solstice heat and the midwinter frost, his soul shattered, drowned to a greater depth...

His burning inside is pulled out for a strange ectasy to conquer, followed then by the cold, dark pressure. Nose and mouth stuffed, he feels pinned into the snow while suffocating darkness takes over. He wants to scream _—_ _enough, no more, his brain can't take this_... _Give in to this, Potter, give in..._

The invasion in mind tortures him much more fiercely than physical contact. He cannot even make a sound when the man digs deeper, pushing him to his limits, seizing his throat, chaining down his limbs. The marred fragment clings to his pure and complete soul, dissecting it, ravaging it...

 _It can't go on_. On the edge of the painful drowning, a voice emerges, knocking some conscious into his head. _You'll die from this, Harry. He will consume you —_

His soul is immobilised after suffering, and it is an intrinsic will to live that motivates him to strike that fragment of soul with the last bit of strength. A shriek in his brain, then disappears that deepest, coldest, devastating pain, like an ebb receding to the whirlpool. Harry pants hard on the ground. Then he punches without even looking.

Expectantly, he missed. He hurries to put the trousers on and jumps up.

"I was _fucking crazy_ to have believed in you," Harry glares as he shudders in the wind, his whole body tense. "You were just trying to kill me, weren't you?"

The man gazes at him expressionlessly as he responds in a low voice, "Since when I want to keep you alive, Potter?"

Harry's eyes fixed on him, he somehow hears a bell tolling, from light to heavy, wrenching his heart.

"No, no... You promised me... _The Vow_ , didn't it..."

"Potter," the man interrupts him with a gentle call, "that was the first time you had taken an Unbreakable Vow, wasn't it?"

A bone-chilling shiver runs down Harry's spine.

"'Extreme means'... Such vague reference wouldn't work. You must make your conditions clear and specific, you must define 'extreme means', or your words are merely gibberish," he says in such a leisurely manner, the syllables slowly flowing from his mouth, slowly draining the fragile hope in Harry's heart.

Hands clenched into fists, Harry bites in his lips so hard that he nearly draws blood. Now he knows what that mysterious smile meant.

So the man always knows that condition would never take effect, but he has kept silent, so that one day he might take advantage... _How naive to hold expectations, how could he even dream about the man offering him a chance to live?_ All his deeds have been for future exploitation, the intention so evident that only a fool would find excuses for it. And Harry is that fool.

He picks his clothes up from the ground and put them on. He gradually regains sanity with an urge to slap himself.

 _What has he done...? Who is he to blame Voldemort?_ He jumped into the trap himself, a brilliant trap indeed, but would that be enough to defend him? They are arch-enemies from the very start, conspiracy, scheming, all too normal. Neither can afford relaxing vigilance.

"What have you found?" Harry suddenly asks as he wipes off the sweat on his neck forcibly.

"If I do find anything of my interest, I'll inform you, Potter."

"No, you won't," Harry cast a cold look at him. "You'll be telling lies, you'll make me run out of that eight minutes and thirty seconds, and you'll kill me."

"I never said so."

"You didn't have to." Harry feels completely clearheaded now, his lips forming a weak smile. "I'm not going to cooperate, nor am I going to run away. We have all the time here."

It just occurred to him that the concept 'help' was also vague. It doesn't mean 'do as told', so why can't he also tempt the Vow a little?

"You really think you _have all the time_ , Potter?" the man's voice now is a rumbling purr, his gaze vicious, "When do you plan to collect your friend's corpse, hmm?"

Harry inhales deeply to contain himself. His hands and feet cold as ice, his heart pounding against his chest, his breaths short, he knows this is stalemate for him.

The Vow is flawed, and powerless against the cunning. Voldemort promised him time to run and a wand, but he never said the two conditions would be realised at the same time — he could even kill him first before giving him the wand.

He has lost this game. He shouldn't have agreed to take the Vow in the first place. The only binding condition is that he can't run from Voldemort, and that is the key to taking him down.

He did run out of time.

But then he remembers when he ran to ask help from Draco, he wasn't punished by the Vow... Maybe it was because he didn't mean to run from the man but only intended to leave for a while... No, maybe it was because going to the hospital was a premise in the Vow, and the magic allowed him to go.

Nonetheless, it seems that there is no other choice than helping Voldemort reacquire his magic, now...

"I see," he utters while looking him in the eye, "What else do you want?"

Satisfied with his compromise, Voldemort finally cracks a smile. "No need of foreplay this time, I believe... But what happened before cannot repeat itself, Potter."

"Given the chance, I'll smash you."

Dumbledore told him Voldemort wouldn't try to possess him for another time, as the broken piece of soul can't afford contact with his complete one. However, a moment ago, he just laid down all his guards and let his soul to be fiddled... Never again.

"I'm not going to touch your soul this time," the man says, "and you're not going to cast me out as last time, Potter."

"I don't see why I can't."

"Nor did I expect you to," he puts an end to the conversation and grabs Harry closer.

 

He has that subtle feeling again. He feels like falling, without anything to hold onto. Voldemort can invade his soul effortlessly now, just like a more horrible form of Occlumency, and he is incapable of doing anything to stop it. No matter how stubbornly he fights, there is a sign of connivence, and through the tiny leak Voldemort slithers in like a snake.

He feels a hand once again, but its existence seems more distant this time. He can no longer catch it. What horrifies him more is that he's losing force in struggling, drained of strength. He is deprived of all senses.

_No, no— It can't be— He won't be used anymore—_

In the gradual loss of consciousness, he feels immersed in the deep, blue sea, his memories flashing before his eyes like old, vague scenes of dramas, surreal, illusory.

"She's dead."

He snaps back.

_He was in the smelly, cold, dark Chamber of Secrets, where the shadow of the tall, handsome boy was becoming solid, as if he just stepped out of a dream. He was playing with Harry's wand, a girl lying beside his feet, whether she was still alive unknown._

_"...Because she put too much into the diary, into me..." dark eyes locked on him, "So did you, Harry Potter."_

_No—_

_Hermione and he traversed through the weeds in search of edible fungi buried in the damp mud, the slender leaves brushing their waists as they busily looking everywhere... They were in the tent, dining on the burned bass, the clicking of knives and forks soon replaced by their quarreling, then by silence, where each of their dreams that built barriers between them are born... They stepped into the graveyard snow, swept off the graupel that covered the tomb, and laid the delicate wreath before the tombstone. In the moonlight shone the golden letters:_

**The last enemy that shall be destroyed is death.**

 

The letters light his world up, break through the overwhelming perplexity and shatter all other powers oppressing him. He suddenly struggles out of the dark sea, his whole face stained by tears.

He pushes the man away and stumbles to his feet, running from their resting spot as pulling out the Invisibility Cloak. It's almost midday, and the sun brings warmth upon his wet cheeks. He doesn't bother to wipe off the tears, so they either stream down his chin or dry in the sunlight before falling.

He leaves the roars of fury behind, his heart bumping violently against his ribs as if it was going to jump out of his throat. It hurts like hell.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys! First, many thanks for leaving kudos and comments. I apologise for slowing the updates down. Schoolwork has been a little more consuming than I thought but I'm trying to balance. Hope you enjoy this new chapter!


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